SELECTED  WRITINGS 
OF  WILLIAM  SHARP 


UNIFORM  EDITION 
ARRANGED  BY 
MRS.  WILLIAM  SHARP 

VOLUME     IV 


LITERARY  GEOGRAPHY 
AND  TRAVEL-SKETCHES 
BY  WILLIAM  SHARP 

SELECTED  AND 
ARRANGED  BY 
MRS. WILLIAM  SHARP 


NEW  YORK 

DUFFIELD  &  COMPANY 

1912 


TO 
GEORGE  R.  HALKETT 

MY  DEAR  HALKETT 

More  years  ago  than  either  of  us  cares  to  recall, 
we  were  both,  in  the  same  dismal  autumn  for  us, 
sent  wandering  from  our  native  land  in  Scotland  to 
the  ends  of  the  earth.  I  remember  that  each  com- 
miserated the  other  because  of  that  dpctor's-doom 
in  which  we  both,  being  young  and  foolish,  believed. 
Since  then  \ve  have  sailed  many  seas  and  traversed 
many  lands,  and  I,  at  least,  have  the  wayfaring  fever 
too  strong  upon  me  ever  to  be  cured  now.  At  times, 
however,  one  not  only  returns  to  one's  own  country, 
but  to  the  familiar  lands  of  Literary  Geography, 
where,  since  we  were  boys,  we  have  so  often  fared 
with  never-failing  gladness  and  content.  Some  of 
these  wayfarings,  set  in  the  steadfastness  of  print, 
are  now  chronicled  in  this  book;  and  to  whom  better 
could  I  dedicate  it  than  to  you,  who  are  at  once 
editorially  its  godfather  and  the  old-time  and  valued 
friend  of 

THE  AUTHOR 


261177 


CONTENTS 

PART  I 

PAGE 

THE  COUNTRY  OF  STEVENSON  3 

THE  COUNTRY  OF  GEORGE  MEREDITH  31 
AYLWIN-LAND:  WALES  AND  EAST 

ANGLIA  62 

THE  COUNTRY  OF  CARLYLE  93 

THE  COUNTRY  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT  115 

THACKERAY-LAND  137 

THE  BRONTE  COUNTRY  168 
THE  THAMES  FROM  OXFORD  TO  THE 

NORE  198 

THE  LAKE  OF  GENEVA  228 

PART  II 
THREE  TRAVEL-SKETCHES 

THROUGH  NELSON'S  DUCHY  289 

THE  LAND  OF  THEOCRITUS  314 

ROME  IN  AFRICA  335 

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE  389 


PART   I 


IV 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  STEVENSON 

THE  first  time  I  saw  Robert  Louis  Stevenson 
was  at  Waterloo  Station.  I  did  not  at  that 
time  know  him  even  by  sight,  and  there 
was  no  speculation  as  to  identity  in  my 
mind  when  my  attention  was  attracted  by  a 
passenger,  of  a  strangeness  of  appearance 
almost  grotesque,  emerging  from  a  compart- 
ment in  the  Bournemouth  train  which  had 
just  arrived.  I  was  at  the  station  to  meet 
a  French  friend  coming  by  the  Southampton 
route,  but  as  I  did  not  expect  his  arrival 
till  by  the  express  due  some  twenty  minutes 
later,  I  allowed  myself  an  idle  and  amused 
interest  in  the  traveller  who  had  just  stepped 
on  to  the  platform  close  by  me.  He  was 
tall,  thin,  spare — indeed,  he  struck  me  as 
almost  fantastically  spare :  I  remember 
thinking  that  the  station  draught  caught 
him  like  a  torn  leaf  flowing  at  the  end  of  a 
branch.  His  clothes  hung  about  him,  as 
the  clothes  of  a  convalescent  who  has  lost 
bulk  and  weight  after  long  fever.  He  had 
on  a  jacket  of  black  velveteen — I  cannot 
3 


Country  of  Stevenson 

swear  to  the  colour,  but  that  detail  always 
comes  back  in  the  recalled  picture — a  flannel 
shirt  with  a  loose  necktie  negligently  bundled 
into  a  sailor's -knot,  somewhat  fantastical 
trousers,  though  no  doubt  this  effect  was 
due  in  part  to  their  limp  amplitude  about 
what  seemed  rather  the  thin  green  poles 
familiar  in  dahlia-pots  than  the  legs  of  a 
human  creature.  He  wore  a  straw  hat, 
that  in  its  rear  rim  suggested  forgetfulness 
on  the  part  of  its  wearer,  who  had  appa- 
rently, in  sleep  or  heedlessness,  treated  it 
as  a  cloth  cap.  These,  however,  were 
details  in  themselves  trivial,  and  were  not 
consciously  noted  till  later.  The  long, 
narrow  face,  then  almost  sallow,  with  some- 
what long,  loose,  dark  hair,  that  draggled 
from  beneath  the  yellow  straw  hat  well  over 
the  ears,  along  the  dusky  hollows  of  temple 
and  cheek,  was  what  immediately  attracted 
attention.  But  the  extraor  dinar  iness  of 
the  impression  was  of  a  man  who  had  just 
been  rescued  from  the  sea  or  a  river.  Except 
for  the  fact  that  his  clothes  did  not  drip, 
that  the  long  black  locks  hung  limp  but  not 
moist,  and  that  the  short  velveteen  jacket 
was  disreputable  but  not  damp,  this  impres- 
sion of  a  man  just  come  or  taken  from  the 
water  was  overwhelming.  That  it  was  not 
4 


The  Country  of  Stevenson 

merely  an  impression  of  my  own  was  proved 
by  the  exclamation  of  a  cabman,  who  was 
standing  beside  me  expectant  of  a  "  fare  " 
who  had  gone  to  look  after  his  luggage  : 
"  Looks  like  a  sooercide,  don't  he,  sir  ?  one 
o'  them  chaps  as  takes  their  down-on-their- 
luck  'eaders  inter  the  Thimes  !  "  And, 
truth  to  tell,  my  fancy  was  somewhat  to  the 
same  measure.  I  looked  again,  seriously 
wondering  if  the  unknown  had  really  suffered 
a  recent  submersion,  voluntary  or  involun- 
tary. 

Meanwhile  he  had  stepped  back  into  the 
compartment,  and  was  now  emerging  again 
with  a  travelling  rug  and  a  book  he  had 
obviously  forgotten.  Our  eyes  met.  I  was 
struck  by  their  dark  luminousness  below 
the  peculiar  eyebrows  ;  and,  if  not  startled, 
which  is  perhaps  too  exaggerated  a  term, 
was  certainly  impressed  by  their  sombre 
melancholy.  Some  poor  fellow,  I  thought, 
on  the  last  coasts  of  consumption,  with 
Shadow-Ferry  almost  within  hail. 

The  next  moment  another  and  more 
pleasing  variant  of  the  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr. 
Hyde  mystery  was  enacted.  The  stranger, 
who  had  been  standing  as  if  bewildered, 
certainly  irresolute,  had  dropped  his  book, 
and  with  long,  white,  nervous  fingers  was 
5 


The  Country  of  Stevenson 

with  one  hand  crumpling  and  twisting  the 
loose  ends  of  his  plaid  or  rug.  Suddenly 
the  friend  whom  he  was  expecting  came 
forward.  The  whole  man  seemed  to  change. 
The  impression  of  emaciation  faded  ;  the 
"  drowned  "  look  passed  ;  even  the  damaged 
straw  hat  and  the  short  velveteen  jacket 
and  the  shank-inhabited  wilderness  of  trouser 
shared  in  this  unique  "  literary  renascence." 
But  the  supreme  change  was  in  the  face. 
The  dark  locks  apparently  receded,  like 
weedy  tangle  in  the  ebb  ;  the  long  sallow 
oval  grew  rounder  and  less  wan  ;  the  sombre 
melancholy  vanished  like  cloud-scud  on  a 
day  of  wind  and  sun,  and  the  dark  eyes 
lightened  to  a  violet -blue  and  were  filled 
with  sunshine  and  laughter.  An  extra- 
ordinarily winsome  smile  invaded  the  face 
.  .  .  pervaded  the  whole  man,  I  .was  about 
to  say. 

The  two  friends  were  about  to  move  away 
when  I  noticed  the  fallen  book.  I  lifted  and 
restored  it,  noticing  as  I  did  so  that  it  was 
The  Tragic  Comedians. 

"  Oh,  a  thousand  thanks  .  .  .  how  good 
of  you  !  "  The  manner  was  of  France,  the 
accent  North -country,  the  intonation  some- 
what strident— that  of  the  Lothians  or 
perhaps  of  Fife. 

6 


The  Country  of  Stevenson 

Who  was  this  puzzling  and  interesting 
personality,  I  now  wondered — this  stranger 
like  a  consumptive  organ-grinder,  with  such 
charm  of  manner,  perforce  or  voluntarily 
so  heedless  in  apparel,  and  a  lover  of  George 
Meredith  ? 

This  problem  was  solved  for  me  by  the 
sudden  appearance  on  the  scene  of  my 
French  friend.  After  all  he  had  come  by 
this  train,  but,  a  traveller  in  an  end  carriage, 
had  not  seen  me  on  arrival,  and,  too,  had 
been  immersed  in  that  complicated  jargon 
indulged  in  between  foreigners  and  the 
British  porter  which  is  our  Anglo -Franco 
variety  of  Pidgeon -English. 

We  had  hardly  greeted  each  other,  when 
he  exclaimed,  "  Ah  !  .  .  .  so  you  know 
him  ?  "  indicating,  as  he  spoke,  the  retreat- 
ing fellow  traveller  in  the  velveteen  jacket 
and  straw  hat. 

"  No  ?  why  ...  I  thought  you  would 
have  known  .  .  .  why,  it  is  your  homme-de- 
lettres  vraiment  charmant,  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson  !  I  have  met  him  more  than 
once  in  France,  and  when  he  saw  me 
at  Ja  station  he  jumped  out  and  spoke 
to  TTme  —  and  at  Basingstoke  he  sent 
me  by  a  porter  this  French  volume,  see, 
with  a  kind  message  that  he  had  read  it 
7 


The  Country  of  Stevenson 

and  desired  me   not   to   trouble   about   its 
return." 

Often,  of  course,  in  later  years,  I  recalled 
that  meeting.  It  was  the  more  strange  to 
encounter  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  and  to 
hear  of  him  thus  from  a  foreigner,  at  an 
English  rail  way -station,  as  only  a  few  days 
earlier  I  had  received  a  letter  from  him, 
apropos  of  something  on  a  metrical  point 
which  I  had  written  in  the  Academy.  How 
glad  I  would  have  been  to  know  to  whom 
it  was  I  handed  back  the  dropped  Tragic 
Comedians  ! 

And  as  the  outward  man  was,  so  was  his 
genius,  so  is  the  country  of  his  imagination. 
The  lands  of  Stevenson -country  know  the 
same  extremes  :  sombre,  melancholy,  stricken 
— or  radiant,  picturesque,  seductive  ;  full 
of  life  and  infinite  charm  ;  so  great  a  range 
between  the  snow-serenities  of  Silverado 
and  the  lone  Beach  of  Falesa,  or  between 
the  dreary  manse-lands  of  "  Thrawn  Janet  " 
or  the  desolate  sea -highlands  of  "  The  Merry 
Men  "  and  the  bright  dance  of  waters  round 
the  Bass  and  beyond  the  Pavilion  on  the 
Links,  or  the  dreamy  peace  of  "  Will  o'  the 
Mill,"  or  the  sunlit  glades  of  Fontainebleau 
which  hid  the  treasure  of  Franchard — as, 
again,  between  Pew  or  Huish  or  other  vivid 
8 


The  Country  of  Stevenson 

villains  of  all  degrees,  from  Long  John 
Silver  to  James  More,  and  the  polished 
Prince  Florizel,  the  Chevalier  de  Brisetout, 
the  old  French  colonel  in  St.  Ives,  the  dour 
David  Balfour  and  the  irrepressible  Alan 
Breck,  between  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde, 
between  the  Stevenson  of  Aes  Triplex  or 
Pulvis  et  Umbra,  and  the  Stevenson  of 
Travels  with  a  Donkey  or  An  Inland  Voyage. 
And  through  all  the  countries  of  Stevenson, 
as  through  his  genius,  as  ever  with  the  man 
himself,  the  heart-warming,  radiant  smile 
is  ever  near  or  is  suddenly  come. 

The  true  Stevenson — because  nature  and 
temperament  concur  in  expression  with 
dramatic  selection  and  literary  instinct — is 
continually  revealed  when  he  writes  of  the 
open.  The  most  ordinary  statements  have 
the  leap  of  the  wind  and  the  dance  of  the 
sea  in  them  :  we  are  thrilled,  as  was  the 
hero  of  Kidnapped,  at  the  "  first  sight  of 
the  Firth  lying  like  a  blue  floor."  What 
intoxication — certainly,  at  least,  for  those 
who  know  the  country — to  read  of  that 
blithe,  windy,  East-Scotland  coast  that 
Stevenson  loved  so  well,  the  country  so 
lovingly  depicted  in  The  Pavilion  on  the 
Links,  Catriona,  and  elsewhere,  that  tract 
of  windy  bent -grass,  with  its  "  bustle  of 
9 


The  Country  of  Stevenson 

down -popping  rabbits  and  up -fly  ing  gulls," 
where  Cassilis  watched  the  Red  Earl  beyond 
the  sea-wood  of  Graden,  where  Alan  Breck 
and  David  Balfour  so  impatiently  awaited 
the  long-delaying  boat  of  the  sloop  Thistle. 
But  those  down-popping  rabbits  and  up- 
flying  gulls  are  too  seductive  .  .  .  one  is 
mentally  transported  to  the  east -wind- 
bitten  sea-sounding  shores  of  the  Lothians. 
The  passage  must  be  quoted  in  full — for 
here  we  have  the  core  of  the  country  which 
Stevenson  loved  above  all  else,  his  own 
homelands,  from  Edinburgh  and  the  Pent- 
lands  on  the  north  and  west  to  the  Lammer- 
muir  and  the  coast  of  Lothian  on  the  east : 

"  As  we  had  first  made  inland  "  (thus  the 
sober  David  Balfour  sets  forth  in  Catriona) 
"  so  our  road  came  in  the  end  to  be  very 
near  due  north  ;  the  old  kirk  of  Aberlady 
for  a  landmark  on  the  left ;  on  the  right, 
the  top  of  the  Berwick  Law  ;  and  it  was 
thus  we  struck  the  shore  again,  not  far  from 
Dirleton.  From  North  Berwick  east  to 
Gullane  Ness  there  runs  a  string  of  four 
small  islets — Craigleith,  the  Lamb,  Fidra, 
and  Eyebrough — notable  by  their  diversity 
of  size  and  shape.  Fidra  is  the  most  par- 
ticular, being  a  strange  grey  islet  of  two 
10 


The  Country  of  Stevenson 

humps,  made  the  more  conspicuous  by  a 
piece  of  ruin  ;  and  I  mind  that  (as  we  drew 
closer  to  it)  by  some  door  or  window  of  the 
ruins  the  sea  peeped  through  like  a  man's 
eye.  Under  the  lee  of  Fidra  there  is  a 
good  anchorage  in  westerly  winds,  and 
there,  from  a  far  way  off,  we  could  see  the 
Thistle  riding.  .  .  .  The  shore  in  face  of 
these  islets  is  altogether  waste.  Here  is 
no  dwelling  of  man,  and  scarce  any  passage, 
or  at  most  of  vagabond  children  running 
at  their  play.  Gullane  is  a  small  place  on 
the  far  side  of  the  Ness  ;  the  folk  of  Dirleton 
go  to  their  business  in  the  inland  fields,  and 
those  of  North  Berwick  straight  to  the  sea- 
fishing  from  their  haven,  so  that  few  parts 
of  the  coast  are  lonelier.  But  I  mind,  as 
we  crawled  upon  our  bellies  into  that  multi- 
plicity of  heights  and  hollows,  keeping  a 
bright  eye  upon  all  sides,  and  our  hearts 
hammering  at  our  ribs,  there  was  such  a 
shining  of  the  sun  and  the  sea,  such  a  stir 
of  the  wind  in  the  bent -grass,  and  such  a 
bustle  of  down -popping  rabbits  and  up- 
flying  gulls,  that  the  desert  seemed  to  me 
like  a  place  that  is  alive." 

Certainly  this  brings  us  to  the  point  as  to 
what  is  Stevenson's  country.     If  we  were 
ii 


The  Country  of  Stevenson 

to  follow  that  wandering  pen  of  his,  it  would 
lead  us  far  afield  :  through  the  Scottish 
Lowlands  and  the  Highland  West  by  Ochil 
and  Pentland  to  Corstorphine  Height  and 
the  Braid  Hills,  with  Edinburgh  between 
them  and  the  sea;  from  Arthur's  Seat  to 
Berwick  Law  and  from  the  moorlands  of 
Pomathorn  and  La  Mancha  to  Lammermuir, 
where  it  breaks  in  vast  grassy  slopes  and 
heath-tangled  haughs  to  the  wild  shores 
between  Tantallon  and  St.  Abbs' ;  from  the 
lone  Sol  way  shores,  where  the  sorrows  of 
Durrisdeer  were  enacted,  to  storm-swept 
Aros  and  the  foam-edged  Earraid  of  Mull, 
and  thence  by  Morven  and  the  Braes  of 
Balquhidder  ;  and  then,  southward,  through 
long  tracts  of  England  from  Carlisle  and 
winding  Eden  to  Market  Bos  worth,  in  a  field 
near  which,  it  will  be  remembered,  the  hero 
of  St.  Ives  and  "  the  Major  "  buried  the  old 
French  colonel — a  fit  companion  for  Colonel 
Newcome,  if  they  met,  as  surely  they  have 
done,  at  the  Club  of  the  Immortals.  From 
the  Midlands  may  be  struck  the  Great  North 
Road,  whose  name  haunted  Stevenson's 
imagination  like  music,  so  that  he  dreamed 
to  weave  around  it  one  of  his  best  romances  ; 
and  that  in  turn  will  lead  to  London  and 
the  scenic  background  of  so  many  fantastic 

12 


The  Country  of  Stevenson 

episodes,  and  above  all  (to  the  true  Steven- 
sonian)  to  Rupert  Street,  off  Leicester 
Square,  where,  it  is  understood,  the  ever 
delightfully  urbane  Prince  Florizel  of  Bohe- 
mia kept  a  tobacconist's  shop.  Then  would 
come  Burford  Bridge,  in  the  heart  of  Surrey, 
so  wed  to  a  great  personal  association  and  to 
a  famous  passage  in  the  Essay  on  Romance. 
Due  south  lies  the  English  coast,  with  all 
its  associations  with  the  boyhood  of  the 
hero  of  Treasure  Island  .  .  .  and  its  many 
personal  associations  with  Stevenson  himself, 
who  lived  awhile  at  Bournemouth  West,  in  a 
pleasant  house  on  the  pine -lands  to  which  he 
had  given  the  name  of  "  Skerryvore,"  in 
remembrance  of  that  greatest  achievement 
of  his  family  "the  lighthouse  builders." 

But  this  covers  only  a  small  tract  of  the 
literary  geography  of  the  Stevenson -lands. 
Across  the  near  seas  are  Flanders  and  the 
Dutch  Netherlands,  where  David  Balfour 
followed  Catriona,  and  where  James  More 
intrigued  and  idly  dreamed  to  the  last : 
Paris,  the  background  of  so  many  fine 
episodes,  from  that  of  the  Sire  de  Maletroit's 
Door  and  A  Lodging  for  the  Night  to  the 
famous  scene  where  Prince  Florizel  throws 
the  Rajah's  Diamond  into  the  Seine  :  Fon- 
tainebleau,  with  all  its  happy  personal 
13 


The  Country  of  Stevenson 

memories  of  "  R.  L.  S."  when  resident  at 
Barbizon  with  his  cousin  "  R,  A.  M.  S.,"* 
and  all  its  associations  with  that  delightful 
tale  The  Treasure  of  Franchard  ;  the  lovely 
river  scenery  of  An  Inland  Voyage,  and  the 
picturesque  Cevennes  Highlands  of  Travels 
with  a  Donkey  ;  and  Marseilles  and  Hyeres, 
each  of  them  "  a  paradise  "  till  the  Serpent 
soon  or  late  (and  generally,  here  as  else- 
where, soon)  entered  in  guise  of  a  crafty 
landlord  or  servant -worry  or  relaxing  climate 
or  fever  or  other  ailment.  When  I  was  last 
in  the  Hyeres  neighbourhood  I  visited  the 
charming  villa  where  Stevenson  declared 
he  had  at  last  found  the  ideal  place  "  to 
live  in,  to  work  in,  and  to  die  in " — 
and  understood  why,  a  little  later,  he 
alluded  to  it  in  terms  more  vigorous  and 
unconventional  than  eulogistic  !  Neverthe- 
less, his  Hyeres  home,  and  its  garden  that 

*  The  late  Robert  Allen  Mowbray  Stevenson 
was  commonly  known  by  his  initials  :  one  of  the 
most  lovable  of  men,  an  artist,  and  the  most 
illuminating  and  suggestive  of  modern  writers  on 
art  (his  study  of  Velasquez  and  Fromentin's 
Mattres  d'Autrefois  are,  I  think,  two  of  the  most 
suggestive  and  fascinating  of  modern  books  on 
art),  he  lacked  in  creative  power  that  energy  and 
charm  which  in  person  he  had  to  a  degree  not  less 
than  revealed  in  R.  L.  S. 

14 


The  Country  of  Stevenson 

"  thrilled  all  night  with  the  flutes  of  silence," 
had  ever  a  treasured  place  in  his  memory. 

Then  across  the  wider  seas  there  are  the 
forests  of  New  England,  where  Ticonderoga 
wandered,  and  where  the  Master  of  Ballan- 
trae  came  to  his  tragic  end ;  the  green 
Adirondacks  and  the  snow-clad  heights 
where  the  Silverado  squatters  gained  new 
life  and  hope ;  the  vast  prairies  across 
which  the  emigrant  train  wearily  toiled  ; 
and  San  Francisco,  like  a  white  condor  from 
the  Andes  at  her  sea-eyrie  by  the  Golden 
Horn — the  San  Francisco  whence  sailed 
the  Stevensonian  schooners  of  fact  and 
fancy,  now  bearing  "  R.  L.  S."  to  Pacific 
Isles,  now  carrying  one  or  other  of  those 
adventurers  whose  very  existence  on  earth 
was  a  wellspring  of  joy  to  Stevenson's 
romantic  imagination — the  San  Francisco 
where  he  married  the  lady  who  as  "  Fanny 
Van  de  Grift  Stevenson  "  was  afterwards 
to  share  with  him  the  repute  won  by  some 
of  his  most  fantastic  and  delightful  work. 
It  is,  however,  pleasanter  to  turn  from  Cali- 
fornia, where,  at  an  earlier  period,  at  Los 
Angeles  and  elsewhere,  "  R.  L.  S."  knew 
so  much  privation  and  disheartenment  at 
a  time  when  health,  finances,  and  prospects 
ran  a  neck-and-neck  race  for  final  collapse, 
15 


The  Country  of  Stevenson 

to  that  wide  sunlit  ocean  where  to  the 
imagination  Romance  for  ever  sails  in  a 
white  sloop  before  a  south  wind.  The 
Samoan  Islands — here,  above  all,  we  may 
find  ourselves  at  one  of  the  least  unstable 
of  Stevenson's  wandering  homes  !  His  only 
home  of  late  years,  indeed,  and  where  the 
desire  of  change  and  movement  ceased  to 
irritate  the  longing  mind  acutely,  and  where 
some  of  his  finest  work  was  achieved,  and 
much  that  was  delightful  and  fascinating 
sent  out  to  an  ever -widening  circle  of  eager 
readers.  Nor,  to  the  lover  of  Stevenson, 
can  any  place  be  more  sacred  than  that 
lonely  island  in  the  Pacific,  and  the  lonely 
highland  forest  in  the  heart  of  it,  at  whose 
summit  lies  the  mortal  part  of  "  Tusitala," 
the  teller  of  tales,  the  singer  of  songs,  whose 
lovely  requiem  is,  in  his  own  words,  so  un- 
forgettable in  their  restful  music  and  in  the 
inward  cadence  of  the  heart  speaking  : 

Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky, 
Dig  the  grave  and  let  me  lie  ; 
Glad  did  I  live  and  gladly  die, 
And  I  laid  me  down  with  a  will. 

This  be  the  verse  you  grave  for  me  : 
Here  he  lies  where  he  longed  to  be  ; 
Home  is  the  sailor,  home  from  sea, 
And  the  hunter  home  from  the  hill. 
16 


The  Country  of  Stevenson 

A  friend  who  saw  Stevenson  in  Samoa 
told  me  that  once,  on  half -jocularly  asking 
him  "  what's  your  secret  ?  "  "  R.  L.  S." 
answered  :  "  Oh,  it's  only  that  I've  always 
known  what  I  liked  and  what  I  wanted  ; 
and  that,  with  the  power  to  convince  yourself 
and  others,  is  rarer  than  you  think."  And 
though  that  is  only  a  facet  of  truth,  it's  an 
acute  flash  on  life  so  far  as  it  extends.  In 
Samoa  as  elsewhere  he  knew  what  he  liked, 
and  why  he  liked,  whether  in  life  or  litera- 
ture. Years  before,  in  An  Inland  Voyage, 
he  had  said  the  same  thing  :  "To  know 
what  you  prefer,  instead  of  humbly  saying 
Amen  to  what  the  world  tells  you  you  ought 
to  prefer,  is  to  have  kept  your  soul  alive." 

But  the  Stevenson  country  !  How  are 
we  to  define  that  ?  We  cannot,  in  this 
instance,  follow  the  wandering  genius  of  the 
author  whom  we  all  love :  a  map  of  "Treasure 
Island  "  we  can  have,  it  is  true,  for  who  has 
forgotten  that  delightful  chart  which  once 
set  so  many  hearts  a-beating  ?  but  from 
the  coral-circt  isles  of  the  Pacific  round  the 
long  world  of  green  and  grey  to  the  dark 
Water  of  Swift,  by  the  wastes  of  Sol  way, 
or  to  the  lone  House  of  Aros  by  the  sea- 
facing  hills  of  Argyll,  to  follow  the  devious 
track  of  "  R.  L.  S."  would  be  too  extensive 

iv  17  B 


The  Country  of  Stevenson 

a  trip  for  us  to  overtake  here.  And  then, 
too,  there  is  the  Land  of  Counterpane  ! 
How  is  one  to  chart  that  delightful  country  ? 
We  all  know  that  it  comes  within  the  literary 
geography  of  the  imagination,  but  then  that 
rainbow-set  continent  itself  is  as  difficult 
to  reach  as  Atlantis,  or  the  Isle  of  Avalon, 
or  Hy  Brasil,  or  any  other  of  the  Islands  of 
Dreams. 

No,  obviously  we  must  take  the  more 
local  sense,  and  by  Stevenson's  country 
mean  the  country  of  his  birth  and  up- 
bringing— "  the  lands  that  made  him,"  as 
he  said  once.  In  his  case,  certainly,  this 
does  not  mean  dissociation  from  his  work. 
The  "  literary  geography  of  Rudyard  Kip- 
ling," for  instance,  would  be  everywhere 
save  the  place  where  that  distinguished 
writer's  forbears  dwelt ;  nor  does  it  matter 
to  any  one  (be  it  said  without  impertinence) 
that  Mr.  Kipling  lived  and  wrote  at  Rotting- 
dean,  or  wrote  and  lived  in  Manhattan. 
This  is  neither  a  compliment  nor  the  reverse  : 
simply  a  statement  of  a  sentiment  many 
feel  ...  a  sentiment  to  which  allusion  is 
made  in  another  article  in  this  series,  in 
connection  with  George  Eliot.  We  are 
keenly  interested  in  Gad's  Hill,  in  Abbots- 
ford,  in  Vailima — in  Stevenson's  instance, 
18 


The  Country  of  Stevenson 

as  in  Dickens'  and  Scott's,  in  every  place 
where  he  made  or  attempted  to  make  a 
home.  There  are  other  writers,  whose  work 
perhaps  we  admire  as  much  or  more,  who, 
for  all  we  care,  might  have  written  their 
books  in  a  Swiss  hotel  or  a  New  York  board- 
ing-house, or  even  inside  a  London  'bus.  It 
is  not  a  thing  easily  to  be  explained,  perhaps 
is  not  explicable  :  it  either  is,  or  is  not,  to 
be  felt. 

How  would  Stevenson  himself  define  his 
country  ?  In  one  of  his  essays  he  alludes 
to  youthful  seductive  avenues  to  romance 
as  "  Penny  plain  and  twopence  coloured." 
For  all  the  multi-coloured  shift  and  chance 
of  foreign  travel  and  life  in  South -sea  climes, 
I  think  the  "  Twopence  coloured  "  country 
to  which  his  imagination  and  longing  would 
have  come  for  choice,  had  to  choose  one 
way  been  necessary,  would  have  been  those 
beloved  home-lands  between  the  links  of 
Gullane  and  that  old  manse  by  Swanston 
in  the  Pentlands.  The  way  would  be  by 
one  of  those  old  green  drove -roads  such  as 
that  by  which  David  Balfour  left  Essendean 
after  his  father's  death,  when  he  set  out  for 
distant  Cramond,  a  two-days,'  long  march 
till  he  should  come  upon  the  House  of  Shaws. 
It  would  wind  through  the  Lothians,  with 

19 


The  Country  of  Stevenson 

many  a  glimpse  of  the  sea  leaning  ashine 
across  the  green  bar  of  the  landward  horizon, 
or  of  the  Firth  of  Forth  lying  like  "  a  blue 
floor."     It  would  lead  by  the  Braid  Hills 
to  Bristo  and  the  Bruntsfield  links — whereby 
the  hero  of  Catriona  fought  his  fantastic 
duel    with    the    touchy    Highland    officer, 
Lieutenant  Hector  Duncansby,  who,  as  he 
informed  David,  was  "  ferry  prave  myself, 
and  pold  as  a  lions  "—and  so  "to  the  top 
of  a  hill,"  where  still  the  sheep  nibble  the 
sweet  grass  save  when  the  golfer's  artillery 
drives  them  to  the  furze-garths,  to  where 
"  all  the  country  will  fall  away  down  to  the 
sea,  and,  in  the  midst  of  the  descent,  on  a 
long  ridge,  the  city  of  Edinburgh  smoking 
like  a  kiln."     The  green  drove -road  would 
end,  and  Edinburgh  be  entered  by  way  of 
the  white  roads  of  Liberton  or  the  Braid  ; 
and  the  old  picturesque  city  be  traversed 
and  retra versed  this  way  and  that,  and  of 
course,  not  unmindful  of  that  Howard  Place 
where,  at  No.  8,  Robert  Louis  Stevenson 
was    born — to    emerge    beyond    the    Dean 
Bridge,    or    where    Murray  field   leans    over 
the    Water    of    Leith    and    looks    towards 
Corstorphine   Hill,    whose   woods   are   now 
metropolitan — at  whose  familiar  landmark, 
the    "  Rest-and-Be-Thankful,"   Alan   Breck 
20 


The  Country  of  Stevenson 

and  David  Balfour  parted  when  they  had 
all  but  come  upon  Silvermills  after  that  long 
perilous  flight  of  theirs  towards  and  hither- 
ward    the    Highland    line.     Then    looping 
Cramond  and  the  House  of  Shaws,  the  way 
would  cross  over  the  strath  between  Corstor- 
phine  and  Dreghorn,  and  mount  by  Colinton 
and  Juniper  Green,  to  embrace  that  pleasant 
isolated  manse  of  Swanston,  where  Steven- 
son spent  so  many  happy  days  of  boyhood, 
and  to  which  his  thoughts  so  often  lovingly 
wandered,  and,  further,  the  higher  Pentland 
moorland  region,  to  be  for  ever  associated 
with    Weir  of  Hermiston.     One   can,   in   a 
word,  outline  Stevenson's  own  country  as 
all  the  region  that  on  a  clear  day  one  may 
in  the  heart  of  Edinburgh  descry  from  the 
Castle  walls.     Thence  one  may  look  down 
towards  the  climbing  streets  of  the  old  town, 
with  its  many  closes  and  wynds,  where  the 
young  advocate  pursued  so  many  avocations 
to  the  detriment  of  his  formal  vocation  ; 
one  may  think  of  all  Stevenson's  personal 
associations  with  Edinburgh,   and  of  how 
St.  Ives  looked  over  these  very  walls,  and 
how,  within  them,  the  French  prisoners  of 
war   "  ate  their  hearts  out  "  :    of  yonder 
building,  still  the  Bank  of  the  British  Linen 
Company,  within  whose  doors  David  Balfour 

21 


The  Country  of  Stevenson 

was  to  find  fortune  at  last,  and  at  whose 
portal,  when  the  reader  comes  upon  the 
closing  words  of  Kidnapped,  the  young 
Laird  of  Shaws  is  left  standing  ;  of  that 
hidden  close  yonder,  where  Catriona  Drum- 
/nond  met  her  fate  when  she  accepted  the 
"  saxpence  "  that  had  come  "  all  the  way 
from  Balquhidder  "  ;  of  the  gloomy  house 
over  against  the  Canongate  and  the  Nether - 
bow  where  Prestongrange  and  Simon  Fraser 
spun  their  webs  of  intrigue  ;  away  down 
to  where  the  Leith  spires  glitter  against  the 
glittering  Forth,  whence  David  and  Catriona 
looked  up  that  morning  when  Captain  Sang 
brought  his  brigantine  out  of  the  Roads, 
and  saw  "  Edinburgh  and  the  Pentland 
Hills  glinting  above  in  a  kind  of  smuisty 
brightness,  now  and  again  overcome  with 
blots  of  cloud,"  with  no  more  than  the 
chimney-tops  of  Leith  visible  because  of 
the  haar  ;  or  over  westward  to  "  the  village 
of  Dean  lying  in  the  hollow  of  a  glen  by 
the  waterside,"  now  a  grey  declivity  by  a 
ravine  in  the  very  body  of  the  city  ;  or 
sheer  down,  where  now  are  pleasant  gardens 
and  a  continual  business  of  hurried  folk 
and  idlers,  but  once  was  marish  and  thick 
undergrowth  of  gorse  and  bramble,  to  the 
most  splendid  street  in  Europe,  changed 
22 


The  Country  of  Stevenson 

indeed  from  the  days  of  Kidnapped  and 
Catriona  and  the  final  upbreak  of  all  the 
broken  families  who  held  by  the  Stuart 
dynasty — the  Lang  Dykes,  as  Princes  Street 
was  then  called,  when  it  was  a  broad  walk 
by  the  water-edge  to  the  north  of  the  grey 
bristling  lizard  of  the  old  town  ;  or  due 
westward,  past  Corstorphine,  round  which 
the  houses  now  gather  like  the  clotted  foam 
upon  a  rising  tide,  and  over  Colinton  way 
to  Swanston  "  in  the  green  lap  of  the  Pent- 
land  Hills,"  and  so  to  Cauldstaneslap  and 
all  the  scenery  of  the  history  of  the  Weirs 
and  Rutherfords  and  Black  Elliotts,  to  where 
Archie  and  Kirstie  met  by  night  on  the 
moor,  and  where  Lord  Hermiston's  grim 
smile  seems  to  be  part  of  the  often  beautiful 
but  oftener  sombre  landscape.  From  distant 
Berwick  Law  and  the  dim  blur  of  the  Bass 
Rock — in  certain  pages  concerning  which, 
both  as  to  the  imprisonment  there  of  David 
and  as  to  how  Black  Andie  entertained 
him  with  the  awful  tale  of  Tod  Lapraik, 
Stevenson  is  at  the  same  inimitable  height 
of  narrative  as  with  a  still  broader  hand- 
ling he  attained  in  Weir  of  Hermiston — 
to  the  Hawes  Inn  by  the  Queen's  Ferry, 
there  is  hardly  a  mile  of  land  which  is  not 
coloured  by  the  life  and  romantic  atmosphere 
23 


The  Country  of  Stevenson 

of    him   whom    we   lovingly  speak    of    as 
"R.  L.  S." 

Was  he  really  "  a  changeling,"  as  one  of 
his  friends  half -seriously  averred  ?  No,  he 
was  only  one  of  those  rare  temperaments 
which  gather  to  themselves  the  floating 
drift  blowing  upon  every  wind  from  every 
quarter ;  one  of  those  creative  natures 
which,  in  their  own  incalculable  seasons  and 
upon  their  own  shifting  pastures,  reveal 
again,  in  a  new  and  fascinating  texture  and 
pageant  of  life,  the  innumerable  flowers  and 
weeds  come  to  them  in  invisible  seed  from 
near  and  far.  But,  to  many  people,  Steven- 
son had  something  of  the  elfish  character. 
A  bookseller's  assistant,  who  knew  him 
well  in  the  early  Edinburgh  days,  told  me 
that  "Mr.  Stevenson  often  gave  the  im- 
pression he  wasna  quite  canny  " — not  in 
the  sense  that  he  was  "  wandering,"  but 
that  "  he  had  two  ways  wi'  him,  an'  you 
never  kenned  which  was  Mr.  Stevenson  and 
which  was  the  man  who  wasna  listening, 
but  was,  as  ye  micht  say,  thinkin'  and 
talkin'  wi'  some  one  else."  Very  likely 
"  R.  L.  S."  occasionally  gave  a  fillip  to  any 
bewildered  fancy  of  the  kind.  Some  will 
recall  how  he  himself  at  one  time  thought 
that  the  unfortunate  Scottish  poet  Ferguson 
24 


The  Country  of  Stevenson 

was  reincarnate  in  himself.  But  others 
also  "  felt  strangely "  to  him.  There  is 
that  singular  story,  told  by  a  friend  of  the 
family,  Miss  Blantyre  Simpson,  of  how 
the  late  Sir  Percy  and  Lady  Shelley  both 
believed  that  Shelley  had  been  re-born  in 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  and  how  Lady 
Shelley  went  so  far  as  to  bear  a  deep  re- 
sentment against  Mrs.  Stevenson  as  the 
mother  of  the  child  that  ought  to  have 
been  her  own  ! 

"  Mrs.  Stevenson  told  us,  hearing  Lady 
Shelley  had  called  and  was  alone,  she, 
glancing  at  herself  in  a  glass  to  see  there  was 
no  hair  awry,  went  smiling  into  the  room, 
ready,  she  said,  to  be  adored  as  the  mother 
of  the  man  her  visitor  and  Sir  Percy  flattered 
and  praised.  But  when  she  introduced 
herself,  Lady  Shelley  rose  indignantly  and 
turned  from  her  proffered  hand.  She 
accused  Mrs.  Stevenson  of  having  robbed  her 
of  a  son,  for  she  held  Louis  should  have 
been  sent  to  her,  that  he  was  the  poet's 
grandson  ;  but  by  some  perverse  trickery, 
of  which  she  judged  Mrs.  Stevenson  guilty, 
this  descendant  of  Percy  Bysshe  had  come 
to  a  house  in  Howard  Place,  Edinburgh, 
instead  of  hers  at  Boscombe  Manor." 
25 


The  Country  of  Stevenson 

I  do  not  know  if  Stevenson  ever  heard  of 
this  story.  It  might  have  touched  his  mind 
to  some  grotesque  or  tragic  imaginative 
fancy. 

As  for  his  elfin-country,  it  was  not 
changeling-land  ;  but  that  country  bordered 
by  the  shores  of  old  Romance  of  which  he 
traversed  so  many  provinces,  and  even,  as 
is  the  wont  of  explorers,  gave  a  name  to  this 
or  that  virgin  tract,  as  "  The  Land  of 
Counterpane." 

It  would  be  difficult  indeed  to  say  where 
Stevenson  is  at  his  best.  By  common 
consent  Weir  of  Hermiston  is  held  his  most 
masterly  achievement,  so  far  as  one  may 
discern  a  finished  masterpiece  in  a  masterly 
fragment.  If  I  had  to  name  three  pieces 
of  descriptive  writing,  I  think  I  should  say 
the  chapter  on  the  Bass  Rock  in  Catriona, 
the  account  of  the  wild  Mull  coast  and 
desolate  highlands  in  The  Merry  Men,  and, 
in  another  kind,  A  Lodging  for  the  Night. 
Probably  no  living  writer — unless  it  be 
Mr.  Meredith — has  surpassed  Stevenson 
here  ;  as  few,  if  any,  have  equalled  him  in 
dramatic  episode  such  as  the  quarrel  of  Alan 
Breck  and  David  Balfour  in  Kidnapped 
(concerning  which  Mr.  Henry  James  said 
once  that  he  knew  "  few  better  examples  of 
26 


The  Country  of  Stevenson 

the  way  genius  has  ever  a  surprise  in  its 
pocket  "),  or  the  immortal  duel  between 
Henry  Durrisdeer  and  the  Master  of  Ballan- 
trae,  or  the  outwardly  more  commonplace 
but  not  less  dramatic  and  impressive  final 
scene  between  Archie  Weir  and  Lord 
Hermiston.  Read  these,  and  then  consider 
how  even  a  writer  of  the  calibre  of  Mr. 
Rudyard  Kipling  can  misjudge — as  when 
the  author  of  Kim  (a  book  itself  commonly 
misjudged,  I  think,  and  one,  surely,  that 
Stevenson  would  have  ranked  among  its 
writer's  best)  wrote  in  the  unpleasing  arro- 
gance of  rivalry  :  "  There  is  a  writer  called 
Mr.  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  who  makes  the 
most  delicate  inlay -work  in  black  and 
white,  and  files  out  to  the  fraction  of  a  hair." 
It  is  impossible  in  a  short  article  to  give 
adequate  illustration  by  quotation.  But 
even  a  few  words  may  reveal  the  master's 
touch.  Here  is  the  passage  where  (in 
Catriona)  the  Bass  is  seen  at  dawn  : 

"  There  began  to  fall  a  gray  ness  on  the 
face  of  the  sea  ;  little  dabs  of  pink  and  red, 
like  coals  of  slow  fire,  came  in  the  east  ; 
and  at  the  same  time  the  geese  awakened, 
and  began  crying  about  the  top  of  the 
Bass.  It  is  just  the  one  crag  of  rock,  as 
27 


The  Country  of  Stevenson 

everybody  knows,  but  great  enough  to 
carve  a  city  from.  The  sea  was  extremely 
little,  but  there  went  a  hollow  plowter 
round  the  base  of  it.  With  the  growing  of 
the  dawn,  I  could  see  it  clearer  and  clearer  ; 
the  straight  crags  painted  with  sea-birds' 
droppings  like  a  morning  frost,  the  sloping 
top  of  it  green  with  grass,  the  clan  of  white 
geese  that  cried  about  the  sides,  and  the 
black  broken  buildings  of  the  prison  sitting 
close  on  the  sea's  edge." 

Or,  again,  take   the  following  from  The 
Merry  Men : 

"  The  night,  though  we  were  so  little 
past  midsummer,  was  as  dark  as  January. 
Intervals  of  a  groping  twilight  alternated 
with  spells  of  utter  blackness  ;  and  it  was 
impossible  to  trace  the  reason  of  these 
changes  in  the  flying  horror  of  the  sky. 
The  wind  blew  the  breath  out  of  a  man's 
nostrils ;  all  heaven  seemed  to  thunder 
overhead  like  one  huge  sail  ;  and  when  there 
fell  a  momentary  lull  on  Aros,  we  could  hear 
the  gusts  dismally  sweeping  in  the  distance. 
Over  all  the  lowlands  of  the  Ross  the  wind 
must  have  blown  as  fierce  as  on  the  open 
sea  ;  and  God  only  knows  the  uproar  that 
was  raging  round  the  head  of  Ben  Kyaw. 
28 


The  Country  of  Stevenson 

Sheets  of  mingled  spray  and  rain  were 
driven  in  our  faces.  All  round  the  isle  of 
Aros  the  surf,  with  an  incessant,  hammering 
thunder,  beat  upon  the  reefs  and  beaches. 
Now  louder  in  one  place,  now  lower  in 
another,  like  the  combinations  of  orchestral 
music,  the  constant  mass  of  sound  was 
hardly  varied  for  a  moment.  And  loud 
above  all  this  burly -burly  I  could  hear  the 
changeful  voices  of  the  Roost  and  the 
intermittent  roaring  of  The  Merry  Men." 

How  virile  this  is,  how  vivid  and  con- 
vincing ! 

That  wonderful  West  described  in  The 
Merry  Men  and  in  the  Highland  chapters 
of  Kidnapped  is  seized  with  extraordinary 
insight  and  sympathetic  power  by  Stevenson, 
who,  though  a  Lowlander  and  Edinburgh - 
born  (and  Edinburgh  folk,  it  is  said,  are  all 
born  with  a  bit  of  North  Sea  ice  in  their 
veins  and  a  touch  of  the  grey  east  wind  in 
their  minds),  wrote  of  the  Gaelic  lands  with 
the  love  and  understanding  which  so  often 
beget  essential  intimacy. 

Stevenson  complained  sadly  of  Thoreau 

that  he  had  no  waste-lands  in  his  "  improved- 

and-sharpened-to-a-point  nature,"  and  added 

that  he  was  "  almost  shockingly  devoid  of 

29 


The  Country  of  Stevenson 

weaknesses."  None  could  write  so  of 
"  R.  L.  S."  ;  but  it  is  the  weaknesses  in 
which  he  was  so  "  shockingly  "  conspicuous 
that,  along  with  high  and  rare  qualities  of 
mind  and  nature,  as  well  as  of  imagination 
and  art,  have  endeared  to  us,  and  surely  will 
endear  to  those  who  come  after  us,  the 
most  winsome  and  most  lovable  of  men 
of  genius. 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  GEORGE 
MEREDITH 

The  day  was  a  van-bird  of  summer  ;   the  robin  still 

piped,  but  the  blue, 
A    warm  and  dreamy  palace  with   voices   of  larks 

ringing  through, 
Looked  down  as  if  wistfully  eyeing  the  blossoms  that 

fell  from  its  lap  ; 

A  day  to  sweeten  the  juices, — a  day  to  quicken  the  sap! 
All  round  the  shadowy  orchard  sloped  meadows  in 

gold,  and  the  dear 
Shy  violets  breathed  their  hearts  out — the  maiden 

breath  of  the  year  ! 

ON  just  such  a  van -bird  day  as  sung  in  those 
lines  of  the  poet-romancist  himself  I  take 
up  my  pen  to  write  of  "  The  Country  of 
George  Meredith."  The  country  of  George 
Meredith  :  a  fascinating  theme  indeed ! 
For  the  true  Meredithian,  there  is  no  living 
writer  so  saturated  with  the  spirit  of  nature 
in  England  as  this  rare  poet.  What  other 
has  sung  with  so  vibrant  and  exultant  a 
note  as  this  great  analyst  and  portrayer  of 
men  and  women  ? — who  with  all  his  Aristo- 
phanic  laughter  and  keen  Voltairian  spirit 


The  Country  of  George  Meredith 

feels  to  the  core  what  he  has  himself  so 
finely  expressed  .  .  .  that  nothing  but 
poetry  makes  romances  passable,  "  for 
poetry  is  the  everlastingly  and  embracingly 
human  ;  without  it,  your  fictions  are  flat 
foolishness."  But  what  a  country  it  is — 
how  wide  its  domain,  how  evasive  its 
frontiers  !  I  doubt  if  any  living  writer  is 
as  intimate  with  nature-life,  with  what  we 
mean  by  "  country -life."  Certainly  none 
can  so  flash  manifold  aspect  into  sudden 
revelation.  Not  even  Richard  Jeffries  knew 
nature  more  intimately,  though  he  gave 
his  whole  thought  to  what  with  Meredith 
is  but  a  beautiful  and  ever-varying  back- 
ground. I  recollect  Grant  Allen,  himself 
as  keen  a  lover  and  accomplished  a  student 
of  nature  as  England  could  show,  speaking 
of  this  singular  intimacy  in  one  who  had 
no  pretension  to  be  a  man  of  science.  And 
that  recalls  to  me  a  delightful  afternoon 
illustrative  of  what  has  just  been  said. 
Some  twelve  or  fourteen  years  ago,  when 
Grant  Allen  (whom  I  did  not  then  know) 
was  residing  at  The  Nook,  Dorking,  I 
happened  to  be  on  a  few  days'  visit  to 
George  Meredith  at  his  cottage -home  near 
Burford  Bridge,  a  few  miles  away.  On  the 
Sunday  morning  I  walked  over  the  field- 
32 


The  Country  of  George  Meredith 

ways  to  Dorking,  and  found  Grant  Allen  at 
home.  It  was  a  pleasant  meeting.  We 
had  friends  in  common,  were  colleagues 
on  the  staff  of  two  London  literary  "  week- 
lies," and  I  had  recently  enjoyed  favourably 
reviewing  a  new  book  by  this  prolific  and 
always  interesting  and  delightful  writer. 
So,  with  these  "  credentials,"  enhanced  by 
the  fact  that  I  came  as  a  guest  of  his  friend, 
I  found  a  cordial  welcome,  and  began  there 
and  then  with  that  most  winsome  person- 
ality a  friendship  which  I  have  always 
accounted  one  of  the  best  things  that  literary 
life  has  brought  me.  After  luncheon,  Grant 
Allen  said  he  would  accompany  me  back  by 
Box  Hill  ;  as,  apart  from  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  Mr.  Meredith,  he  particularly  wanted 
to  ask  him  about  some  disputed  point 
in  natural  history  (a  botanical  point  of 
some  kind,  in  connection,  I  think,  with 
the  lovely  spring  flower  "  Love-in-a-Mist  " 
— for  which  Meredith  had  a  special 
affection,  and  had  fine  slips  of  it  in 
his  garden)  which  he  had  not  been  able  to 
observe  satisfactorily  for  himself.  I  frankly 
expressed  my  surprise  that  a  specialist 
such  as  my  host  should  wish  to  consult 
any  other  than  a  colleague  on  a  matter 
of  intimate  knowledge  and  observation ; 
iv  33  c 


The  Country  of  George  Meredith 

but  was  assured  that  there  were  "  not 
half  a  dozen  men  living  to  whom  I  would 
go  in  preference  to  George  Meredith  on  a 
point  of  this  kind.  He  knows  the  intimate 
facts  of  countryside  life  as  very  few  of  us 
do  after  the  most  specific  training.  I  don't 
know  whether  he  could  describe  that  green- 
finch in  the  wild  cherry  yonder  in  the  terms 
of  an  ornithologist  and  botanist — in  fact, 
I'm  pretty  sure  he  couldn't.  But  you  may 
rest  assured  there  is  no  ornithologist  living 
who  knows  more  about  the  finch  of  real 
life  than  George  Meredith  does — its  ap- 
pearance, male  and  female,  its  song,  its 
habits,  its  dates  of  coming  and  going,  the 
places  where  it  builds,  how  its  nest  is  made, 
how  many  eggs  it  lays  and  what -like  they 
are,  what  it  feeds  on,  what  its  song  is  like 
before  and  after  mating,  and  when  and 
where  it  may  best  be  heard,  and  so  forth. 
As  for  the  wild  cherry  .  .  .  perhaps  he 
doesn't  know  much  about  it  technically 
(very  likely  he  does,  I  may  add  !  ...  it's 
never  safe  with  *  our  wily  friend  '  to  take 
for  granted  that  he  doesn't  know  more  about 
any  subject  than  any  one  else  does  !)  .  .  . 
but  if  any  one  could  say  when  the  first 
blossoms  will  appear  and  how  long  they 
will  last,  how  many  petals  each  blossom 
34 


The  Country  of  George  Meredith 

has,  what  variations  in  colour  and  what 
kind  of  smell  they  have,  then  it's  he  and 
no  other  better.  And  as  for  how  he  would 
describe  that  cherry-tree  .  .  .  well,  you've 
read  Richard  Feverel  and  Love  in  a  Valley, 
and  that  should  tell  you  everything  !  " 

But  before  we  come  to  Meredith's  own 
particular  country — the  home-country  so 
intimately  described  in  much  of  his  most 
distinctive  poetry  and  prose,  and  endeared 
to  all  who  love  both  by  his  long  residence 
in  its  midst — let  us  turn  first  to  the  wider 
aspects  implied  in  the  title  of  this  article 
of  our  "  Literary  Geography  "  series. 

George  Meredith  as  a  writer  of  romance 
has  annexed  no  particular  region,  as  Mr. 
Hardy  has  annexed  Wessex,  as,  among 
younger  men,  Mr.  Eden  Phillpotts  has 
restricted  his  scope  to  the  Devon  wilds,  or 
Mr.  Murray  Gilchrist  to  the  Peakland 
region.  In  truth,  he  has  no  territorial 
acquisitiveness  :  it  would  matter  nothing 
to  him,  I  fancy,  whether  Richard  Feverel,  or 
Nevil  Beauchamp,  or  Evan  Harrington,  or 
Rhoda  or  Dahlia  Fleming,  or  Clara  Middle- 
ton,  or  "  Browny "  Farrell,  or  any  other 
of  his  men  and  women,  played  their  parts 
in  this  or  that  country,  in  southern  England 
or  western  or  eastern,  in  Bath  or  Berlin,  in 
35 


The  Country  of  George  Meredith 

London  or  Limburg.  Although  the  natural 
background  of  his  English  stories  is  very 
subtly  used  by  him,  it  is  only  occasionally 
the  background  of  specific  geographical 
region  or  of  locality ;  though  at  times  we 
may  find  ourselves  for  a  while  at  Bath, 
or  Tunbridge  Wells,  or  Wimbledon  (if 
Wimbledon  it  be  where  General  Ople 
had  his  "  gentlemanly  residence  "  and  was 
appropriated  out  of  widowerhood  by  the 
redoubtable  Lady  Camper),  or  by  Thames  - 
side,  or  at  Felixstowe,  or  anywhere  east  or 
south  of  Waterloo  Bridge  as  far  as  the 
dancing  tide  of  that  unforgettable  off- 
Harwich  swim  in  Lord  Ormont  and  his 
Aminta,  or  that  particular  reach  of  "  blue 
water  "  of  the  Channel  betwixt  the  Isle 
of  Wight  and  the  coast  of  France  where 
Jenny  Denham,  on  board  the  Esperanza, 
wakes  to  the  truth  that  she  is  to  be  the 
crowning  personal  factor  in  Nevil  Beau- 
champ's  diversified  amorous  career. 

In  this  series  of  "  Literary  Geography  " 
it  has  ever  been  a  puzzle  how  to  treat 
specifically  the  country  of  a  famous  writer 
when  that  writer  has  wandered  far  afield, 
as  Scott  did,  or  as  Stevenson  did.  It  is 
rare  that  one  finds  a  novelist  so  restricted 
in  locality  as  George  Eliot  or  Mr.  Thomas 

36 


The  Country  of  George  Meredith 

Hardy.  The  former  made  one  great  and 
unconvincing  venture  abroad  ;  but  in  con- 
nection with  the  titular  phrase  "  The 
Country  of  George  Eliot  "  the  Florence  of 
Romola  would  not  naturally  be  thought  of. 
George  Eliot  made  photographic  Florentine 
studies  :  she  did  not  herself  re-create  for  us 
the  country  of  Romola,  as  she  re-created 
her  own  home -land  for  us  in  Adam  Bede, 
or  Silas  Marner,  or  The  Mill  on  the  Floss. 
And  Mr.  Hardy  is  Wessex  to  the  core. 
Little  beyond  is  of  account  in  what  he  has 
done,  and  we  can  no  more  readily  imagine 
him  writing  a  tale  of  Venice  or  of  Switzer- 
land than  we  could  readily  imagine  Dos- 
toievsky or  Maxim  Gorki  emulating  Samuel 
Lover  or  Charles  Lever. 

But  Meredith  leaves  one  in  face  of  an 
acuter  difficulty.  In  a  sense,  he  is  English 
of  the  English  :  there  is  none  living 
who  more  swiftly  and  poignantly  conveys 
the  very  breath  and  bloom  of  nature 
as  we  know  it  in  England — above  all  in 
Surrey  and  the  long  continuous  vale 
of  the  Thames.  The  titles  of  one  or  two 
books  of  his  verse  are  significant  :  Poems 
of  the  English  Roadside,  Poems  and  Lyrics  of 
the  Joy  of  Earth.  He  is,  before  all,  the 
poet  of  the  joy  of  life,  and  none  has  more 
37 


The  Country  of  George  Meredith 

intimately  brought  us  nearer  in  delight  to 
the  countryside.  I  know  no  more  winsome 
book  of  verse,  for  the  truly  in  love  with 
nature,  than  The  Nature  Poems  of  George 
Meredith,  with  Mr.  William  Hyde's  wholly 
delightful  drawings  :  a  volume  containing 
little  in  quantity,  but  superlatively  rich  in 
quality.  It  is  enough  to  add  that  its 
contents  include  the  noble  Hymn  to  Colour, 
Woods  of  Wester  main,  Love  in  a  Valley, 
The  South-Wester,  The  Thrush  in  February, 
The  Lark  Ascending,  Night  of  Frost  in  May, 
the  Dirge  in  Woods.  Yet,  while  this  is 
obvious,  any  lover  of  his  writings  will  recall 
that  much  of  what  is  most  beautiful  in 
description — rather  in  evocation,  for  any- 
thing of  detailed  description,  save  on  the 
broadest  canvas  with  a  swift  and  burning 
brush,  is  rare  with  this  master  of  English 
prose — is  in  connection  with  Italian,  or 
French,  or  German,  or  Austrian,  or  Swiss 
scenery.  He  has  made  Venice  and  the 
Alpine  regions  more  alive  with  unforgettable 
light  and  magic  touch  than  any  other  has 
done  since  Ruskin,  and  in  a  way  wholly  his 
own,  supremely  the  Tintoretto  of  the  pen 
as  he  is.  How,  then,  in  speaking  of  "  The 
Country  of  George  Meredith,"  are  we  to 
limit  ourselves  to  Surrey  or  the  home- 

38 


The  Country  of  George  Meredith 

counties  ?     The  most  English  of  his  novels 
is  held  to  be  The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel ; 
but  the  finest  piece  of  descriptive  writing  of 
nature  in  that  book  (and,  as  it  happens,  the 
longest  of    any  in  the  books  of  Meredith) 
is    not  of  nature    as    we    know  it  on  the 
Surrey  downs  or  by  the  banks  o'  Thames, 
but  among  the  hills  of  Nassau  in  Rhineland 
and  by  the  clear  flood  of  the  Lahn  where  it 
calls  to  the  forest  not  far  from  that  old 
bridge  at  Limburg,  "  where  the  shadow  of  a 
stone  bishop  is  thrown  by  the  moonlight 
on  the  water  crawling  over  slabs  of  slate." 
No  one  who  has  read  (how  many  there  must 
be  who  know  it  almost  by  heart  !)  the  forty- 
second  chapter  of  this  book — the  chapter 
so  aptly  named,  though  with  double  mean- 
ing,   "Nature  speaks"— will  be  ready   to 
forego    the    author's    right    to    have    this 
riverland  and  f  orestland  of  Nassau  included 
in    his    "  Country."     If   one    of   the    most 
deep,  vivid,  and  beautiful  pieces  of  writing 
in  modern  literature  is  not   to  bring  the 
region  limned  within   the  frontier   of  the 
author's  literary  geography,  what  value  in 
the  designation  remains  ?     It  is  not  isolated 
in   beauty,    that   unforgettable   scene  .  .  . 
not  even  when  set  with  its  compeer  in  the 
same  book,  the  familiar  but  never  staled 
39 


The  Country  of  George  Meredith 

beauty  of  that  finest  prose-poem  in  English 
fiction,  the  famous  Enchanted  Islands  chapter 
or  wooing  of  Richard  Feverel  and  Lucy 
Desborough  (with  characteristic  irony  en- 
titled "  A  Diversion  Played  on  a  Penny 
Whistle  "),  or  with  the  brief  but  mordant 
passage  given  to  the  tragically  ineffective 
meeting  of  married  Richard  and  Lucy  in 
Kensington  Gardens,  "  when  the  round  of 
the  red  winter  sun  was  behind  the  bare 
chestnuts."  One  could  companion  these 
with  a  score,  with  a  hundred  passages,  from 
the  Rhineland  of  the  early  Farina  to  the 
Alps  of  The  Amazing  Marriage. 

The  literary  geography  of  George  Meredith, 
then,  cannot  be  confined  to  a  region  or 
scattered  regions  with  definite  frontiers, 
still  less  to  a  mere  county  or  two  with  ad- 
justable boundaries  :  it  must  be  constructed, 
say,  like  the  shire  of  Cromarty,  which  one 
finds  in  bits  about  the  north  of  Scotland,  or 
like  that  familiar  "  Empire "  map  where 
the  red  flaunt  of  our  kinship  is  scattered  over 
the  world  with  what  a  famous  humorist 
has  called  an  impartial  and  inveterate 
zest  for  "  dumping  "  on  all  the  desirable 
and  soft  spots. 

Switzerland,  from  the  Bernese  Oberland 
to  Monte  Generoso  ;  Italy,  from  the  Lom- 
40 


The  Country  of  George  Meredith 

bard  Plain  below  Monte  Motterone  to 
Verona  and  Venice ;  Austria,  from  the 
upper  waters  of  Lago  di  Maggiore  or  from 
Friulian  or  Carinthian  Alp,  to  hill -set 
Meran  and  imperial  Vienna ;  Germany, 
from  the  Harz  to  the  hills  of  Nassau  and 
the  Rhinelands  of  Cologne  (of  the  thousands 
who  invest  there  in  the  "  Farina "  of 
commerce,  one  wonders  how  many  indulge 
in  or  recall  the  "  Farina "  of  literature, 
wherein  the  Triumph  of  Odour  is  so  pic- 
turesquely set  forth  !)  ;  France,  from  the 
pleasant  Vosges  or  old  Touraine  to  the  not 
unguessable  "  Tourdestelle  "  of  the  Norman 
coast — are  not  these,  with  Solent  waters 
and  the  open  Channel  and  the  Breton 
reaches  of  La  Manche  and  "  the  blue  "  west 
and  south  of  Ushant,  even  to  distant 
Madeira  ...  are  not  all  these  to  be  brought 
within  the  compass  of  the  literary  geo- 
grapher ? 

True,  it  may  be  urged,  these  are  but 
swallow-flights  into  poetry.  "  A  series  of 
kaleidoscopic  views,  however  beautiful,  is 
not  enough  to  justify  the  claim  of  the  literary 
geographer  to  this  or  that  region,"  or 
words  to  that  effect,  might  be  adduced. 
But  the  secret  of  the  vivid  and  abiding 
charm  of  Mr.  Meredith's  backgrounds  to 
41 


The  Country  of  George  Meredith 

• 

the  tragi-comedy  of  his  outstanding  men 
and  women  is  just  in  their  aloofness  from 
anything  "  kaleidoscopic,"  with  its  im- 
plication of  the  arbitrary  and  the  accidental. 
He  does  not  go  to  Venice  or  to  Limburg  to 
write  about  these  places,  or  to  note  the 
bloom  of  local  colour  for  literary  decoration  ; 
nor  does  he  diverge  by  the  Adriatic  or  by 
the  winding  ways  of  Lahn,  so  as  to  introduce 
this  gondola-view  of  the  sea-set  city  or  that 
forest -vision  which  for  English  folk  has 
given  a  touch  of  beauty  to  Nassau  which 
before  it  hardly  owned  in  literary  remem- 
brance. His  men  and  women  are  there, 
for  a  time,  or  passingly  ;  and  so  the  beauty 
that  is  in  the  background  closes  round  and 
upon  them,  or  is  flashed  out  for  a  moment, 
through  the  magic  of  the  same  power  which 
gave  themselves  the  breath  of  life.  The 
same  vision  which  has  seen  into  a  Renee's 
heart  or  the  life -springs  of  a  Nevil  Beau- 
champ,  or  pierced  the  veils  of  personality 
in  a  Cecilia  Halkett  (or  any  of  the  long 
unequalled  "  studies "  from  Lucy  Des- 
borough  to  beautiful  Carinthia,  from  Rosa- 
mund Romfrey  —  perhaps  Mr.  Meredith's 
subtlest  portrait — to  Mrs.  Berry)  or  in 
men  of  passionate  life  and  action  such  as 
Richard  Feverel,  or  "  Matey  "  Weyburn, 
42 


The  Country  of  George  Meredith 

or  the  great  Alvan  (and  here,  too,  what  a 
gallery  of  living  natures,  between  the  almost 
grotesque     extremes     of     Sir     Willoughby 
Patterne  of  one  great  novel  and  the  Dr. 
Shrapnel  of  another  !) — the  same  vision  has 
noted   the   determining   features   and   out- 
standing aspects  of  this  or  that  scene,  and, 
in  flashing  a  single  ray  or  flooding  a  long 
continuous  beam,  has  revealed  to  us  more 
than  the  most  conscientious  photographic 
or    "  pre-Raphaelite "    method    could    ac- 
complish in  ten  times  the  space,  or  in  ten 
times  ten.     It  is,  indeed,  pre-eminently  in 
these  brief  outlines  of  the  country  in  which 
his    imagination    temporarily    pursues    its 
creative    way    that    Meredith   excels.       A 
score  of  instances  will  doubtless  occur  to 
the  reader,  but  here  are  one  or  two  chosen 
almost  at  random.     I  do  not  allude  to  those, 
and  they  are  many,  which  convey  solely  by 
awakening  an  emotion  in  the  mind  of  the 
reader — not  by  description  but  by  a  sudden 
terse  expression  of  deep  feeling  in  the  midst 
of   dialogue   or   direct   narrative  :     as,    for 
example,  a  couple  of  lines  in  that  delightful 
romance    Lord    Ormont    and    his    Aminta, 
which  so  charmed  readers  of  the  Pall  Mall 
Magazine    in    the     numbers    issued    from 
December  1893  to  July  1894  : 
43 


The  Country  of  George  Meredith 

"  Thus  it  happened  that  Lord  Ormont 
and  Philippa  were  on  the  famous  Bernese 
Terrace,  grandest  of  terrestrial  theatres, 
where  soul  of  man  has  fronting  him  earth's 
utmost  majesty.  ..." 

I  allude,  rather,  to  vivid  "  asides  "  such 
as : 

"...  poor  Blackburn  Tuckham  de- 
scended greenish  to  his  cabin  as  soon  as 
(the  yacht)  had  crashed  on  the  first  wall- 
waves  of  the  chalk-race,  a  throw  beyond 
the  peaked  cliffs  edged  with  cormorants, 
and  were  really  tasting  sea.  .  .  ."  (Beau- 
champ's  Career.) 

or, 

"  Thames  played  round  them  on  his 
pastoral  pipes.  Bee-note  and  woodside 
blackbird,  and  meadow  cow,  and  the  leap 
of  the  fish  in  the  silver  rolling  rings  com- 
posed the  music." — (Lord  Ormont.) 

or  that  rapid  impression  of  Venice,  by 
Renee,  in  her  brief  Adriatic  flight  romance- 
ward  with  Nevil  Beauchamp : 

4  ...  Green   shutters,    wet   steps,   bar- 
caroli,  brown  women,  striped  posts,  a  scarlet 
44 


The  Country  of  George  Meredith 

night-cap,  a  sick  fig-tree,  an  old  shawl,  faded 
spots  of  colour,  peeling  walls.  .  .  ." 

or,  and  finally,  for  one  must  make  an  end 
to  what  might  be  indefinitely  prolonged — 
and  for  the  same  reason,  still  to  keep  to 
Beauchamp's  Career — this  of  the  fading  of 
Venice  from  the  gaze  of  Renee  and  Nevil : 

"...  [Leaning  thus],  with  Nevil  she 
said  adieu  to  Venice,  where  the  faint  red 
Doge's  palace  was  like  the  fadmg  of  another 
sunset  north-westward  of  the  glory  along 
the  hills.  Venice  dropped  lower  and  lower, 
breasting  the  waters,  until  it  was  a  thin  line 
in  air.  The  line  was  broken,  and  ran  in 
dots,  with  here  and  there  a  pillar  standing 
on  opal  sky.  At  last  the  topmost  cam- 
panile sank.  Ren6e  looked  up  at  the  sails, 
and  back  for  the  submerged  city.  '  It 
is  gone,'  she  said,  '  as  though  a  marvel  had 
been  worked  ;  and  swiftly.' ' 

As  for  more  detailed  description  of  those 
regions — Venetian,  Lombardian,  Alpine, 
Swiss,  French,  German,  Austrian — which 
must  be  included  by  the  literary  geographer 
of  the  country  of  George  Meredith,  that  too 
might  be  made  the  pleasant  task  of  a 
volume  rather  than  the  difficult  coup  d'ceil 
45 


The  Country  of  George  Meredith 

and  impossible  adequate  representation  of 
a  magazine  article.  From  Richard  Fever  el 
and  Beauchamp's  Career,  the  two  deepest 
and  tenderest  and  most  winsome  of  the 
author's  books,  to  the  superb  Vittoria,  the 
brilliant  and  fascinating  'Diana  of  the  Cross- 
ways  ;  from  that  intense  study  of  the 
Teuton  nature  aflame,  The  Tragic  Comedians, 
to  Lord  Ormont  and  his  Aminta,  and  the 
best  loved  and  most  lovable  of  Meredith's 
later  romances,  The  Amazing  Marriage, 
there  is  not  one  which  would  not  yield  some 
long  excerpt  of  treasurable  beauty  and 
distinction.  Which  would  it  be,  if  but  a 
quotation  or  two  at  most  could  be  given  ? 
Shall  it  be  just  across  the  Channel,  at 
Renee's  Tourdestelle  in  Normandy,  hidden 
behind  that  coast  of  interminable  dunes, 
that  coast  seen  by  Nevil  Beauchamp  on  his 
fateful  visit  "  dashed  in  rain-lines  across  a 
weed-strewn  sea  ?  "  Or  at  Baden  Baden 
and  the  high  Alps  with  Carinthia  ?  Or  with 
Richard  Feverel  in  the  woods  at  Nassau  on 
the  day  when  that  "  tragic  failure  "  learns 
suddenly  what  has  happened  to  poor  Lucy 
...  that  he  is  a  father  ?  Or  with  beauti- 
ful and  radiant  Diana  at  Monte  Generoso  ? 
Or  with  superb  Vittoria  at  Monte  Motterone, 
overlooking  Lombardy  and  Italy  ?  Or  the 

46 


The  Country  of  George  Meredith 

Adriatic  by  night — or  the  Alps  beyond 
Venice  at  dawn — or  .  .  .  but  an  end  ! 

"  The  woman  guides  us."  But  which 
of  the  many  beautiful  women  of  Meredith's 
"  House  of  Life  "  shall  it  be  ?  All  are 
unforgettable  portraits,  from  Lucy  Des- 
borough  and  Renee  de  Croisnel  to  Clara 
Middleton,  to  Diana,  to  Carinthia  ;  all  are 
of  vital  womanly  nature  at  its  vividest, 
from  Vittoria  to  Clotilde,  from  Cecilia 
Halkett  to  "  Browny "  Aminta  (perhaps, 
of  all,  the  nearest  to  the  most  modern 
ideal  of  woman,  she  who  of  all  this  author's 
women-characters  appeals  most  to  men  and 
women  jointly,  .  .  .  and  has  not  he  who 
knows  her  best  written  of  her,  "  All  women 
were  eclipsed  by  her.  She  was  that  fire  in 
the  night  which  lights  the  night  and  draws 
the  night  to  look  at  it  "  ?) 

But  let  us  choose  another  and  less 
bewildering  method.  Nature  is  nature, 
whether  viewed  among  the  Alps,  in  Nassau 
forests,  in  Surrey  woods  or  wealds.  George 
Meredith  writes  with  his  bewitching  mastery, 
not  because  he  has  travelled  widely  and 
seen  much,  but  because  from  his  cottage- 
home  in  the  heart  of  Surrey,  or  wherever 
else  he  has  lived,  briefly  or  for  long,  he  has 
observed  with  insatiable  love  and  eagerness 
47 


The  Country  of  George  Meredith 

— because   he   has    the   transmuting   mind 
and  the  instinct  of  interpretation.     "  How 
did  he  learn  to  read  at  any  moment  right 
to   the   soul   of   a   woman  ?     It   must   be 
because  of  his  being  in  heart  and  mind  the 
brother  to  the  sister  with  women."     So,  if 
not  thus  articulately,  thought  "  Browny  " 
of   "  Matey  "  Weyburn  in  that  keen -eyed 
and  perturbing  chapter,   "Lovers  Mated." 
And,  it  might  be  added  of  their  creator, 
how  did  he  learn  to  read  at  any  moment 
right  to  the  soul  of  any  aspect  of  nature  ?  .  .  . 
it  must  be  because  of  his  being  heart  and 
mind  the  brother  to  the  living  soul  that 
breathes  and  reveals  itself  in  "the  every- 
thing and  the  all  "  of  Nature.     Hidden  in 
the  midst  of  the  two  hundred  and  ninetieth 
page  of  The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel  is  the 
clue-word  of  that  book— of  all  his  work. 
The    "auroral"    air    is    that    wherein   his 
genius  takes  wing,  whence  it  comes,  whither 
it  soars,  though  its  pastures  are  of  earth, 
and  oftenest  indeed  of  the  earth  earthy. 
This  is  the  secret  of  his  magnificent  sanity  : 
this  undying  youth  with  the  wisdom  of  the 
sage  and  the  auroral  joy  of  life. 

What  a  wealth  to  draw  from  1  One  need 
not  turn  to  the  more  familiar  scenes,  and 
can  find  the  unsurpassable  by  the  sand 


The  Country  of  George  Meredith 

country,  marsh,  and  meadow  of  Bevisham, 
or  by  sea -set  Felixstowe,  as  well  as  among 
the  high  Alps  or  where  Venice  lies  "like 
a  sleeping  queen  "  on  the  Adriatic.  What 
pictures  innumerable,  besides  these  the 
better  known  of  Lucy  and  Renee,  Sandra 
and  Clotilde,  Diana  and  Clara,  Aminta 
and  Carinthia,  and  their  eager  lovers  .  .  . 
as,  for  example,  that  of  the  lovely  episode 
ol  Cecilia  Halkett's  voiceless  wooing  in 
the  dawn  "  of  a  splendid  day  of  the  young 
Spring." 

So  saturated  with  the  sense  of  nature  is 
all  Meredith's  work  in  prose  or  verse, 
so  continually  illumined  is  it  with  vivid 
allusion  or  revealing  glance  that  —  not- 
withstanding the  innumerable  pages  given 
to  nature  -  background  in  foreign  lands, 
from  Norman  Tourdestelle  to  Adriatic 
Chioggia,  from  Madeira  in  the  Canary  Sea 
to  Meran  in  the  Austrian  Tyrol — the  pre- 
vailing impression  on  the  habitual  reader 
of  his  writings  is  that  his  "  country  "  is 
our  own  familiar  English  country,  and  pre- 
eminently Surrey  and  Hants  and  Dorset, 
or  all  from  Felixstowe  (of  the  immortal 
swim)  to  Bevisham,  south-west  of  the  Isle 
of  Wight  and  the  dancing  Solent. 

It  is  in  his  verse,  however,  that  Meredith 
iv  49  D 


The  Country  of  George  Meredith 

has  given  most  intimate  and  poignant 
as  well  as  most  personal  expression  to 
his  deep  love  of  and  exceptional  intimacy 
with  nature.  If  we  must  make  exception, 
let  it  be  such  a  passage  as  that  where 
Richard  Feverel  first  sees  Lucy  Desborough, 
when  on  the  dream-quest  after  his  ideal 
"  Clare  Doria  Forey  "  .  .  .  "  (name  of) 
perfect  melody  !  .  .  .  sliding  with  the  tide, 
he  heard  it  fluting  in  the  bosom  of  the 
hills ; "  or  that  ever-lifting  passage  be- 
ginning, "  Above  green-flashing  plunges  of 
a  weir,  and  shaken  by  the  thunder  below, 
lilies,  golden  and  white,  were  swaying  at 
anchor  among  the  reeds.  Meadow-sweet 
hung  from  the  banks  thick  with  weed  and 
trailing  bramble,  and  there  also  hung  a 
daughter  of  earth  ;  "...  or  that  (since 
Richard's  romance  holds  one  spell-bound) 
where  Sir  Austin  Feverel  and  his  son  are 
together  in  a  rail  way -carriage,  as  they 
approach  Bellingham  at  sundown,  and 
the  young  man  looks  out  over  the  pine -hills 
beyond  to  the  last  rosy  streak  in  a  green 
sky,  and  sees  in  "  the  sad  beauty  of  that  one 
spot  in  the  heavens  "  the  very  symbol  of 
the  ache  and  wonder  in  his  heart.  For  in 
these  things  is  the  very  breath  of  poetry, 
if  not  the  metrical  semblance. 
50 


The  Country  of  George  Meredith 

But  to  begin  now  and  quote  from  the 
poetry  of  George  Meredith  would  keep  us 
indefinitely.  It  is  led  to,  often,  by  rough 
roads,  and  not  infrequently  rude  and  even 
unsightly  and  unwelcome  banks,  obscure 
dew-wet  pasture  and  moonlit  glade.  But 
his  "  country  "  is  always  the  country  of 
Beauty,  of  the  poet.  One  ever  looks  back 
across  "  the  twilight  wave,'*  and  sees  there, 
as  in  a  dream,  remembered  images  of  what 
has  impassioned  and  inspired  : 

We  saw  the  swallows  gathering  in  the  sky, 

And  in  the  oiser-isle  we  heard  their  noise. 

We  had  not  to  look  back  on  summer  joys, 

Or  forward  to  a  summer  of  bright  dye. 

But  in  the  largeness  of  the  evening  earth 

Our  spirits  grew  as  we  went  side  by  side. 

The  hour  became  her  husband,  and  my  bride. 

Love  that  had  robbed  us  so,  thus  bless' d  our  dearth  ! 

The  pilgrims  of  the  year  wax'd  very  loud 

In  multitudinous  chatterings,  as  the  flood 

Full  brown  came  from  the  west,  and  like  pale  blood 

Expanded  to  the  upper  crimson  cloud. 

Love  that  had  robbed  us  of  immortal  things, 

This  little  moment  mercifully  gave, 

And  still  I  see  across  the  twilight  wave 

The  swan  sail  with  her  young  beneath  her  wings. 

Those  who  would  be  in  closest  touch  with 
the  veritable  "  country  of  George  Meredith  " 
will  find  it  in  his  poetry.  It  is  the  country 


The  Country  of  George  Meredith 

of  that  Surrey  where  he  has  so  long  lived,  so 
long  watched  the  wild  cherry  in  the  hollow 
behind  Box  Hill  blossom  anew  at  the 
clarions  of  Spring,  or  the  nightjar  "  spin 
his  dark  monotony "  from  the  moonlit 
pine -branch  each  recurrent  June  ;  where 
he  has  so  often  rejoiced  in  the  south-west 
wind  leaping  bacchanalian  across  the  hills 
and  vales,  or  seen  winter  silence  fall  upon 
that  winding  Mole  by  whose  still  stream 
he  has  so  often  dreamed,  or  watched  the 
reds  and  yellows  of  autumn  glorify  the 
woodland  fastness  behind  the  inn  at  Burford 
Bridge — that  inn  of  many  memories,  where 
Keats  wrote  part  of  his  Endymion,  which  for 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson  had  so  great  a 
fascination  (and  has  by  him  been  snatched 
out  of  the  dusk  of  passing  things),  where 
first  the  two  greatest  romancists  of  to-day 
met,  "  in  the  fellowship  of  Omar."  In  one 
or  other  of  the  small  editions  of  the  Selected 
Poems  the  reader  will  find  the  "life  "  of  the 
author,  as  he  lives  it,  and  has  for  so  long 
lived  it,  in  his  quiet  home.  This  lies  but  a 
stone's -throw  from  what  was  till  recently  a 
lonely  country  road,  though  now  a  thorough- 
fare almost  metropolitan  in  its  continual 
business  of  coach  and  motor.  It  has  still, 
however,  at  times,  much  of  its  old  fascination 
52 


The  Country  of  George  Meredith 

for  the  diminishing  few  who  go  afoot,  and 
the  still  rarer  folk  of  the  yellow  van.  The 
Lark  Ascending,  Woodland  Peace,  Seed-time, 
The  South-Wester,  The  Thrush  in  February, 
Breath  of  the  Briar,  Love  in  a  Valley,  Hymn 
to  Colour,  Night  of  Frost  in  May,  Woods  of 
Wester  main — the  very  names  are  "  breaths 
of  the  briar."  Who  has  not  thrilled  over 
Love  in  a  Valley,  and  to  its  lilting  music  ?  .  .  . 
perhaps  also  to  those  four  lines  which 
Rossetti  once  quoted  to  the  present  writer 
as  the  most  beautiful  of  their  kind  in  the 
language,  adding  "  if  whiteness  be  the 
colour  of  poetry,  then  here  is  virgin  white- 


ness " 


When  from  bed  she  rises,  clothed  from  neck  to  ankle 
In  her  long  nightgown  sweet  as  boughs  of  May, 

Beauteous  she  looks  !  like  a  tall  garden  lily 
Pure  from  the  night  and  perfect  from  the  day  ! 

There  are  such  material  differences  in  the 
two  extant  versions  (Love  in  a  Valley)  as 
to  constitute  them  two  poems  rather  than 
variants  of  one.  In  that  of  1851  there  are 
eleven  stanzas  ;  in  that,  thirty-two  years 
later,  of  Poems  and  Lyrics  of  the  Joy  of 
Earth  (or,  rather,  that  of  Macmillan's 
Magazine  in  1878,  twenty -seven  years  later), 
there  are  more  than  half  as  many  again — 
53 


The  Country  of  George  Meredith 

in  all,  twenty -six.  Of  the  eleven  stanzas  of 
the  earlier  version  only  the  first,  second, 
fourth,  eighth,  and  ninth  reappear,  though 
through  the  fourteenth  of  the  later  version 
rises  the  phantom  of  the  original  fifth 
stanza.  In  rhythmic  beauty  this  four- 
teenth stanza  is  finer,  but  in  the  earlier 
the  poetic  note  is  as  authentic,  and  one 
misses  the  lovely  line  (following  the  "  white  - 
necked  swallows  twittering  of  summer," 
and  the  jasmine  and  woodbine  "  breathing 
sweet  "), 

Fill  her  with  balm  and  nested  peace  from  head  to 
feet. 

Another  lost  beautiful  line  is  that  missing  in 
the  altered  second  stanza, 

Full  of  all  the  wilderness  of  the  woodland 
creatures. 

To  the  cancelled  stanzas  one  can  but  say 
"  Ave  atque  vale,"  since  the  author's 
mature  judgment  wills  them  away  ;  and 
yet  it  is  with  reluctance  we  lose  the  lines 
just  quoted,  or  these  : 

.  .  .  On  a  dewy  eve-tide 

Whispering  together  beneath  the  listening  moon 
I  prayed  till  her  cheek  flush'd.  .  .  . 

54 


The  Country  of  George  Meredith 

....  Show  the  bridal  Heavens  but  one  star  ?  .  .  . 

Is  she  a  nightingale  that  will  not  be  nested 

Till  the  A  pril  woodland  has  built  her  bridal  bower  ? 

April  .  .  .  with  thy  crescent  brows  .  .  . 
Come,  merry  month  of  cuckoo  and  the  violet  ! 
Come,  weeping  Loveliness  in  all  thy  blue  delight ! 

Surely  that  exquisite  last  line  might  have 
been  saved  !  On  the  other  hand,  there  is 
no  music  in  the  earlier  to  equal  that  of 
certain  stanzas  of  the  later  version.  .  .  . 

Lovely  are  the  curves  of  the  white  owl  sweeping 
Wavy  in  the  dusk  lit  by  one  large  star. 

Lone  on  the  fir-branch,  his  rattle-note  unvaried, 
Brooding  o'er  the  gloom,  spins  the  brown  eve-jar. 

Darker  grows  the  valley  .... 

or  the  lovely  "  swaying  whitebeam  "  music 
of  the  twenty-sixth  stanza,  or  that  even 
lovelier  twenty-fourth  stanza,  beginning, 
"  Soon  will  she  lie  like  a  white -frost  sun- 
rise," and  closing  with 

green-winged  Spring, 
Nightingale  and  swallow,  song  and  dipping  wing. 

In  the  retained  stanzas  the  alterations  are 
generally,  but  by  no  means  always,  to  the 
good,  both  poetically  and  metrically.  A 
single  instance,  that  of  the  second  stanza  of 
each  version,  will  suffice  : 
55 


The  Country  of  George  Meredith 

(1851) 
Shy  as  the  squirrel,  and  wayward  as  the  swallow  ; 

Swift  as  the  swallow  when  athwart  the  western  flood 
Circle  ting  the  surface,  he  meets  his  mirror' dwingletst — 

7s  that  dear  one  in  her  maiden  bud. 
Shy  as  the  squirrel  whose  nest  is  in  the  pine-tops  ; 

Gentle — ah  !  that  she  were  jealous  as  the  dove  ! 
Full  of  all  the  wildness  of  the  woodland  creatures, 

Happy  in  herself  is  the  maiden  that  I  love  ! 

(1878-1883) 
Shy  as  the  squirrel  and  wayward  as  the  swallow, 

Swift  as  the  swallow  along  the  river's  light 
Circleting  the  surface  to  meet  his  mirrored  winglets, 

Fleeter  she  seems  in  her  stay  than  in  her  -flight. 
Shy  as  the  squirrel  that  leaps  among  the  pine-tops, 

Wayward  as  the  swallow  overhead  at  set  of  sun, 
She  whom  I  love  is  hard  to  catch  and  conquer, 

Hard,  but  0  the  glory  of  the  winning  were  she  won! 

This  oral  citation  of  the  poem  by  Rossetti 
must  have  been  from  two  to  three  years 
before  the  publication  of  the  revised  and 
amplified  Love  in  a  Valley  in  book-form 
(Poems  and  Lyrics  of  the  Joy  of  Earth,  1883). 
The  poem  as  it  is  now  known  first  appeared 
in  Macmillari's  Magazine  (October  1878) ; 
but  when  Rossetti  quoted  the  lines  to  me 
it  was  out  of  old  remembrance  .  .  .  hence 
the  epithet  "perfect"  for  "splendid"  in 
the  last  line.  On  the  same  occasion  he 
showed  me  (after  some  search)  a  manuscript 

56 


The  Country  of  George  Meredith 

copy  of  it  made — if  I  remember  his  words 
exactly — "  more  than  twenty  years  ago  "  : 
and  added  that  it  was  written  in  "  Meredith's 
'  George  Meredith  Feverel '  days."  I  had 
not  seen  the  poem  in  Macmillan's,  and  did 
not  then  know  of  the  Poems  of  1851  ;  and 
am  not  likely  to  forget  the  impression  of 
its  beauty  as  read  by  Rossetti  from  the 
MS.,  or  the  delight  I  had  in  making  a  copy 
of  it.  Years  afterwards  I  had  the  deeper 
pleasure  of  hearing  Meredith  himself  read 
the  later  and  nobler  version,  in  that  little 
Swiss  chalet  of  his  above  Flint  Cottage 
and  its  gardens,  where  so  much  of  his  later 
work  in  prose  and  verse  has  been  written — 
a  little  brown  wooden  house  of  the  simplest, 
but  to  many  friends  richer  in  ardent 
memories  than  any  palace  in  treasures  .  .  . 
with  its  outlook  down  grassy  terraces  and 
pansied  garden-rows  across  to  the  green 
thorn-stunted  slope  of  Box  Hill,  and  its 
glimpse  leftward  up  that  valley  where  still 
in  nightingale -weather  may  be  seen  in  a 
snow  of  bloom  the  wild  white  cherry  which 
inspired  the  lines : 

Fairer  than  the  lily,  than  the  wild  white  cherry  : 
Fair  as  an  image  my  seraph  love  appears.  .   .   . 

One  wishes  that,  in  his  later  poetry,  Meredith 
57 


The  Country  of  George  Meredith 

had  oftener  sounded  the  simple  and  beau- 
tiful pastoral  note  which  gave  so  lovely  a 
beauty  to  his  first  volume  of  verse.  We 
miss  the  music  of  the  scenery  and  nature  - 
life  of  his  beloved  Surrey  ;  the  lilt  of  songs 
such  as  the  Autumn  Song,  beginning  : 

When  nuts  behind  the  hazel  leaf 

A  re  brown  as  the  squirrel  that  hunts  them  free, 
And  the  fields  are  rich  with  the  sunburnt  sheaf, 

'Mid  the  blue  cornflower  and  the  yellowing  tree  .  .  . 

or  this  "  Spring  Song  "  : 

When  buds  of  palm  do  burst  and  spread 
Their  downy  feathers  in  the  lane, 

A  nd  orchard  blossoms,  white  and  red, 

Breathe  Spring  delight  and  Autumn  gain, 
And  the  skylark  shakes  his  wings  in  the  rain  ; 

Oh  !  then  is  the  season  to  look  for  a  bride  ! 

Choose  her  warily,  woo  her  unseen  ; 
For  the  choicest  maids  are  those  that  hide 

Like  dewy  violets  under  the  green. 

And,  too,  since  he  has  proved  himself  of 
the  few  who  can  use  the  hexameter  with 
effect,  we  lament  that  he  has  not  again 
given  us  summer -music  such  as  inhabits 
Pastoral  VII. : 

Summer  glows  warm  on  the  meadows,  and  speedwell 
and  goldcups  and  daisies 

58 


The  Country  of  George  Meredith 

Darken    'mid    deepening    masses    of    sorrel,    and 

shadowy  grasses 
Show  the  ripe  hue  to  the  farmer,  and  summon  the 

scythe  and  the  haymakers 
Down  from  the  village  ;   and  now,  even  now,  the  air 

smells  of  the  mowing, 
And  the  sharp  song  of  the  scythe  whistles  daily,  from 

dawn  till  the  gloaming 
Wears  its  cool  star  .... 

***** 

Heavily   weighs   the   hot   season,    and   drowses   the 

darkening  foliage, 
Drooping  with  languor  ;   the  white  cloud  floats,  but 

sails  not,  for  windless 
The  blue  heaven  tents  it,  no  lark  singing  up  in  its 

fleecy  white  valleys.  .  .  . 

And  would  that  he  could  sing  again  and 
oftener  of  the  great  Surrey  rolling  slopes  he 
has  known  so  well,  and  most  his  own  close 
by,  up  and  down  and  along  which  he  has 
walked  at  all  hours  in  all  seasons  for  so 
many  years : 

All  day  into  the  open  sky, 
All  night  to  the  eternal  stars, 
For  ever  both  at  morn  and  eve 
When  mellow  distances  draw  near, 
And  shadows  lengthen  in  the  dusk, 
A  thwart  the  heavens  it  rolls  its  glimmering  line  ! 

Among  the  ignorant  and  uncritical  claims 
made   for   the   poetry   of  the   late   W.    E. 
59 


The  Country  of  George  Meredith 

Henley  is  that  of  his  pioneer -use  of  un- 
rhymed  lyrical  verse,  or,  it  may  be,  with 
admission  of  Matthew  Arnold's  priority. 
But  other  writers  preceded  Mr.  Henley,  and, 
as  I  think,  with  a  mastery  beyond  his  (as 
again  I  think)  overrated  rhythmical  experi- 
ments. At  his  best  he  never  approaches 
the  dignity  of  Arnold's  unrhymed  lyrical 
verse,  or  the  suave  and  supple  loveliness  of 
Coventry  Pat  more 's.  Nor  do  I  recollect 
any  rhymeless  lyrical  verse  of  his  finer  in 
emotion  and  touch  than  the  unrhymed 
stanza  just  quoted ;  or  than  this,  from  the 
unrhymed  lyric  of  Nightfall  (Pastoral  No. 
V.): 

Three  short  songs  gives  the  clear-voiced  throstle, 
Sweetening  the  twilight  ere  he  fills  the  nest ; 
While  the  little  bird  upon  the  leafless  branches 
Tweets  to  its  mate  a  tiny  loving  note. 

Deeper  the  stillness  hangs  on  every  motion  : 
Calmer  the  silence  follows  every  call : 
Now  all  is  quiet  save  the  roosting  pheasant, 
The  bell-wether  tinkle  and  the  watchdog's  bark. 

Softly    shine    the    lights  from    the    silent   kindling 

homestead, 
Stars  of  the  hearth  to  the  shepherd  in  the  fold.  .  .  , 

In  these  and  all  such  as  these  we  have 
the  true  country  of  George  Meredith — that 
60 


The  Country  of  George  Meredith 

which  is  part  of  his  daily  life,  which  is 
morning  and  noon  and  evening  comrade, 
in  whose  companionship  all  his  work  has 
grown  and  every  poem  taken  wing,  whose 
solace  has  been  his  deepest  comfort  in  long 
seasons  of  sorrow,  and  is  still  his  deepest 
happiness  in  the  long  days  of  old  age — if 
one  can  think  of  this  blithe  spirit  other  than 
as  eternally  young. 

"  0  joy  thus  to  revel  all  day  in  the  grass  of 
our  own  beloved  country  /  "  he  sang,  as  a 
youth  ;  and  to-day  the  solitary  old  poet, 
looking  out  still  on  his  "  beloved  country  " 
of  mid-Surrey,  finds  the  same  joy,  if  sobered 
to  the  deeper  emotion  of  happiness,  in  the 
warmth  of  human  life  around  and  human 
love  radiating  from  near  and  far. 

How  barren  would  this  valley  be 
Without  the  golden  orb  that  gazes 
On  it,  broadening  to  hues 
Of  rose,  and  spreading  wings  of  amber  ; 
Blessing  it  before  it  falls  asleep  ! 

How  barren  would  this  valley  be 
Without  the  human  lives  now  beating 
In  it,  or  the  throbbing  hearts 
Far  distant,  who  their  flower  of  childhood 
Cherish  here,  and  water  it  with  tears  ! 


6l 


AYLWIN-LAND:    WALES  AND 
EAST    ANGLIA 

To  have  two  regions  named  in  the  terms  of 
romantic  geography,  and  each  to  bear  the 
like  name  and  to  owe  the  same  origin,  is, 
unquestionably,  a  rare  distinction  for  any 
author.  In  that  map  of  the  Literary 
Geography  of  Great  Britain  which  the 
present  writer  outlined  a  year  or  so  ago  for 
his  own  amusement,  before  this  series  was 
begun — and  has  hitherto  refrained  from 
sharing  with  an  eager  world  on  account  of 
his  radical  inability  to  draw  either  a  straight 
line  or  a  proper  curve,  or  even  to  arrange 
the  counties  and  place  the  towns  in  re- 
cognisable proportion  and  exactitude — there 
is  a  tract  of  East  Anglia  as  well  as  a  tract 
of  North  Wales  which  bears  the  legend 
Aylwin-land.  The  designation  is  not  an 
arbitrary  one  of  the  literary  geographer. 
The  traveller  in  East  Anglia  learns  speedily 
from  local  paper  or  guide-book  that  he  is  in 
a  tract  of  coastland  strangely  ignored  by 
the  Ordnance -survey  or,  but  known  to  all 
62 


Aylwin-Land  :  Wales  and  East  Anglia 

cultivated  people  (such  as  you  and  I  and 
the  local  chronicler)  as  "  Aylwin-land  " : 
and  as  "  Aylwin-land  "  a  still  wider  region 
of  North  Wales,  with  Snowdon  as  its  centre, 
is  now  acclaimed  by  the  district -her  aids  to 
all  visitors  to  the  Principality. 

"  Facs  are  jist  facs  :  ye  ma'  ca'  them 
pairtridges  if  ye  like,  but  they're  jist 
facs,  an'  nae  mair  and  nae  less."  And 
with  Simon  MacClucket  we  may  agree 
at  once  to  accept  the  three  incontro- 
vertibles  : 

(1)  That    Aylwin    is    the    representative 
romance  of  East  Anglia,  and  that  along  the 
East  Anglian  coast  north  of  Lowestoft  is 
"  Aylwin-land." 

(2)  That    Aylwin    is    the    representative 
romance  of  North  Wales,  and  that  Snowdon 
is  the  centre  of  (Welsh)  "  Aylwin-land." 

(3)  That    Aylwin    is    the    representative 
romance    of    the    East    Anglian    Gypsies, 
wherever  they  are,  and  is  (in  the  sixpenny 
edition)  largely  indulged  in  by  self-respect- 
ing Romany  chals  and  chis,  and  is  accepted 
by    them    as    (so    to   say)    "  their   official 
organ." 

(Further) 

The  Registrar's  baptismal  statistics  show 
a  significant  decrease  in  the  popularity  of 


Aylwin-Land  :  Wales  and  East  Anglia 

Gladys,  Marie,  Esme',  &c.  &c.,  and  a  con- 
current increase  in  the  popularity  of  Sinfi, 
Rhona,  Winnie,  and  even  Videy.  As  to 
Rhona,  indeed,  there  will  soon  not  be  a  semi- 
detached villa  replete  with  every  home 
comfort  without  its  Rhona.  "  Cyril," 
"Hal,"  and  even  "  Panuel "  too,  have  a 
good  show  :  and  rumour  has  it  that  "  Duk- 
keripen  "  has  been  snatched  by  a  Welsh 
pioneer  unable  to  read  English,  but  whether 
for  a  male  or  a  female  Welshlet  I  know 
not. 

I  wonder  if  any  other  first  romance  has 
ever  had  so  swift  and  so  great  a  success. 
We  all  know  the  enormous  vogue  of  David 
Copperfield,  of  Vanity  Fair,  of  Endymion,  of 
Middlemarch,  though  neither  Dickens  nor 
Thackeray  nor  Disraeli  nor  George  Eliot 
came  suddenly  before  the  reading  public 
with  one  or  other  of  these  books.  Mr. 
Thomas  Hardy  had  written  much  and  long 
before  the  immense  vogue  of  Far  from  the 
Madding  Crowd ;  the  late  William  Black 
served  a  thorough  apprenticeship  before,  as 
Edmund  Yates  had  it,  he  danced  the  High- 
land Fling  from  Paternoster  Row  to  Picca- 
dilly ;  and  even  Lorna  Doone  took  time  to 
ripen  in  public  taste.  Perhaps  the  nearest 
comparison  is  with  John  Inglesant.  But 


Aylwin-Land :  Wales  and  East  Anglia 

even  here  the  likenesses  in  destiny  are  super- 
ficial. J.  Shorthouse's  famous  book  had 
known  no  premonitory  wagging  of  tongues  : 
when  it  did  leave  the  author's  hands  it 
evinced  an  apparently  incurable  tendency 
to  emulate  the  home  returning  "  strayed  " 
cat ;  and  even  when  at  last  published, 
success  came  tardily,  reluctantly  almost,  and 
the  author  found  himself  famous  when  much 
of  the  savour  of  fame  was  gone.  Needless 
to  point  to  the  difference  between  the  present 
supreme  rank  of  The  Ordeal  of  Richard 
Feverel  and  its  first  reception  and  slow 
growth  in  general  esteem.  Now  that  I 
think  of  it,  Trilby  is  the  only  contemporary 
instance  I  can  remember  of  the  immediate 
and  vast  success  of  a  first  romance  by  a  new 
writer. 

However,  we  are  not  concerned  here  with 
the  origins  and  literary  history  of  Theodore 
Watts-Dunton's  famous  romance,  but  solely 
with  its  literary  geography. 

In  a  sense  The  Coming  of  Love  may  be 
merged  meanwhile  in  its  prose  compeer. 
Both  books  are  faithful  mirrors  of  the  same 
spirit,  the  same  individuality,  the  same 
experiences,  the  same  outlook  on  the  things 
of  life  and  eternity.  The  Rhona  Bos  well 
of  the  one  is  the  Rhona  of  the  other  : 

iv  65  E 


Aylwin-Land  :  Wales  and  East  Anglia 

dukkeripens    and    chals    and    Ms    are    un- 
stintedly common  to  both. 

In  calculating  the  literary  geography  of 
any  author  one  has  to  bear  in  mind  the 
author's  own  natal  place  and  early  en- 
vironment. The  colours  seen  in  childhood 
are  those  with  which  in  maturity  whatever 
is  enduring  is  depicted.  It  is  sometimes 
stated  that  literature,  that  poetry  in  par- 
ticular, can  and  even  should  be  independent 
of  any  knowledge  on  the  reader's  part  of 
what  influences  shaped  and  what  inward 
and  extraneous  things  coloured  the  threads 
out  of  which  the  web  is  woven.  :'  We  have 
the  web  :  that  is  enough,"  is,  in  effect, 
the  plea.  Perhaps,  Kubla  Khan  or  The 
Ancient  Manner  is  cited,  with  the  incon- 
trovertible comment  that  Coleridge  never 
was  in  a  Himalayan  gorge  or  never  saw  a 
live  albatross,  either  on  an  unsailed  sea  or 
any  other.  Here,  it  is  argued,  is  proof  that 
the  landscape  and  seascape  of  the  imagina- 
tion need  have  as  little  to  do  with  actual 
knowledge  or  early  familiarity  as  have  the 
coasts  of  Elizabethan  Bohemia  with  the 
frontiers  of  the  Bohemia  of  Franz- Josef. 
The  argument,  however,  is  not  to  the 
point — any  more  than  the  fact  that  Blake, 
who  was  never  at  sea,  once  miraculously 
66 


Aylwin-Land :  Wales  and  East  Anglia 

etched     the     desolation     of     tempestuous 
ocean. 

It  will,  I  think,  be  found  demonstrable 
that  in  by  far  the  greater  number  of  instances 
the  early  environment  of  a  writer  is  what 
counts  most  in  his  mature  expression  of 
nature  as  a  background  to  the  play  of 
human  emotions  and  passions  and  life  lived. 
The  inward  shaping  force  remembers  better 
than  the  controlled  function  which  we  call 
memory.  Perhaps,  for  example,  when  Mr. 
Swinburne  was  writing  his  Sea-Garden  and 
kindred  lyrics,  or  the  sea-choruses  of 
Tristram  of  Lyoncsse  or  By  the  North  Sea,  or 
In  the  Bay,  or  his  ballads  of  Tynewater,  he 
had  no  thought  to  strike  the  note  of  locality, 
which  is  accidental,  but  was  more  concerned 
to  give  us  that  greater  utterance  where 
locality  is  as  unimportant,  as  indesiderate 
as  in  Blake's  Ocean  or  Coleridge's  Ancient 
Mariner.  But  when  we  know  how  so  much 
of  the  poet's  boyhood  was  spent  by  the  then 
lonely,  land-slipping  shores  of  the  Isle  of 
Wight,  by  the  Cornish  headlands,  by  the 
grey  tempestuous  seas  off  the  north-east 
coast,  in  the  moorlands  and  wide  solitudes 
of  his  ancestral  Northumbrian  home,  we 
can  discern  not  merely  their  reflex  in  the 
poems  named,  but  recognise  one  fundamental 


Aylwin-Land :  Wales  and  East  Anglia 

reason  of  the  distinctive  excellence  of  these 
particular  poems  .  .  .  that  accent  of  inti- 
mate familiarity  which  lifts  them  in  him  to 
our  own  more  intimate  regard,  for  the 
instinct  of  the  reader  knows  the  difference 
between  what  is  merely  depicted,  however 
beautifully,  and  what  is  thought  in  to  the  very 
fibre  of  the  thing  created.  It  is  to  thinking  in 
to  the  inmost  fibre  of  what  consciously  and 
unconsciously  Tennyson  remembered  of  his 
Lincolnshire  homeland  that  the  most  subtle 
and  convincing  natural  image  of  In 
Memoriam  is  due.  Ruskin's  childhood  and 
boyhood  and  early  manhood  was  a  kind  of 
processional  festival  through  highland  and 
lakeland  beauty,  in  Cumberland,  in  Scotland, 
in  Switzerland,  in  Italy  ;  and  from  first  to 
last  in  his  work  there  is  a  processional 
festival  of  beauty  wherein  mountain  and 
vale,  Alp  and  hill -loch  and  sealike  lake,  cloud 
and  wind  and  wave,  continually  transact 
their  phantom  life.  It  is  almost  jejune  to 
cite  the  instance  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  :  from 
Waver  ley  to  the  Twa  Drovers,  from  the  lay 
of  Thomas  of  Ercildoune  to  The  Lay  of  the 
Last  Minstrel  ...  in  one  and  all  of  those 
poems  and  romances  of  Scotland,  we  discern 
anew  the  intimate  features  of  that  Scotland 
where  as  child  and  boy  and  man  the  great 
68 


Aylwin-Land :  Wales  and  East  Anglia 

captain  of  romance  gathered  both  wittingly 
and  unwittingly  his  inexhaustible  store  of 
pristine  reminiscence. 

And,  certainly,  Watts-Dunton  was  for- 
tunate in  his  early  environment,  his  early 
impressions,  and  his  restricted  wanderings. 
For  him,  as  boy  and  youth,  nature  meant 
East  Anglia,  the  sombre  German  Ocean, 
cloud-towered  Fen-land,  and  the  romantic 
beauty  of  North  Wales.  A  fortune  indeed 
for  any  imaginative  youngster  to  have,  as 
background  for  actual  life  and  as  scenic 
background  to  the  life  of  dreams,  that 
wonderful  Fen-country  which  has  all  the 
aerial  scope  and  majesty  of  Holland  with  a 
unique  austerity  of  beauty  all  its  own  : 
that  turbulent  grey  North  Sea,  which  has 
in  its  habitual  aspect  so  much  of  eternal 
menace,  but  whose  beauty  can  also  be  so 
radiant  :  that  lovely  and  romantic  mountain 
land  of  Wales,  where  Snowdon,  the  ancient 
mountain  of  the  Druids,  rises  in  isolated 
grandeur.  How  deeply  he  was  influenced, 
how  fully  he  absorbed  the  inexhaustible 
beauty,  how  profoundly  he  was  moved  by 
this  early  familiarity  with  Nature  in  some 
of  her  most  compelling  aspects,  is  abun- 
dantly evident  in  The  Coming  of  Love  and  in 
Aylwin. 


Aylwin-Land  :  Wales  and  East  Anglia 

The  author's  own  country  is,  of  course, 
East  Anglia.  Here  he  was  born  ;  here  his 
early  life  was  spent  ;  here  one  of  the  chief 
events  in  his  life  occurred,  afterwards  to  be 
of  such  potent  influence  in  his  life — his 
intimacy  with  the  better  class  of  gypsies, 
the  Gryengoes  or  horse-dealers  (till  recently 
a  prosperous  and  reputable  body  of  this 
migratory  people,  but  now  for  the  most 
part  shifted  to  America),  and  in  particular 
with  the  two  types  of  Romany  womanhood 
he  has  made  so  unforgettable  in  Rhona 
Boswell  and  Sinn  Lovell  ;  and  here,  in  later 
years,  he  wandered  often  with  George 
Borrow,  prince  of  literary  gypsy dom. 

In  a  letter  which  Watts-Dunton  wrote 
some  time  ago  to  the  Lowestoft  Standard  .  .  . 
concerning  some  correspondence  in  that 
paper  concerning  the  crypt  below  Pakefield 
Church  (introduced  with  so  much  effect  in 
Aylwin,  but  at  which  some  critics  demurred 
in  the  mistaken  supposition  that  no  East 
Anglian  church,  all  in  that  region  of  England 
being  in  the  Perpendicular  style,  had  a 
crypt)  ...  is  an  interesting  personal  state- 
ment, which  may  aptly  be  quoted  here. 
Having  settled  with  the  crypt-objectors,  he 
adds  :  "  With  regard  to  the  identification 
of  the  '  Raxton  Hall '  of  the  story,  I  had, 
70 


Aylwin-Land  :  Wales  and  East  Anglia 

at  the  time  when  Aylwin  was  written,  many 
years  ago,  a  reason  for  wishing  it  to  remain 
unidentified.  My  one  idea  was  to  retain 
what  I  may  call  the  peculiar  '  atmosphere  ' 
and  the  mysterious  spectral  charm  of  the 
East  Anglian  coast,  which  stands  up  and 
confronts  the  ravaging  and  insatiable  sea. 
Hence  I  gave  so  much  and  no  more  of  the 
actual  local  description  of  the  various  points 
of  the  coast  as  might  enable  me  to  secure 
that  atmosphere  and  that  charm.  That  I 
have  been  successful  in  this  regard  is  pretty 
clear,  judging  from  the  enthusiastic  letters 
from  East  Anglians  that  have  been  reaching 
me  since  Aylwin  first  appeared.  This  is 
very  gratifying  to  me,  for  I  love  the  coast  ; 
it  is  associated  with  my  first  sight  of  the 
sea,  my  first  swim  in  the  sea,  and  my  first 
meeting  with  Borrow,  as  described  in  my 
obituary  notice  of  him  in  The  Athenczum. 
And  when  I  saw  in  the  newspapers  last  year 
the  word  '  Aylwin-land '  applied  to  the 
locality  in  which  Aylwin  is  laid,  I  felt  a  glow 
of  pride  which  not  all  the  kind  words  of  the 
critics  have  been  able  to  give  me." 

Except  in  one  masterly  romance,  Mr. 
Baring-Gould's  Mehalah,  and  in  certain 
chapters  of  David  Copperfield,  maritime 
East  Anglia  had  not  met  with  anything  like 


Aylwin-Land  :  Wales  and  East  Anglia 

adequate  recognition  on  the  part  of  the 
romancists.  It  is  a  land  of  infinite  charm,  if 
that  charm  has  little  of  the  picturesque,  as 
the  picturesque  is  commonly  understood, 
and  still  less  of  the  grand,  as  the  grand  in 
nature  is  commonly  understood.  Of  course 
"  The  Broads  "  are  well  known  and  loved, 
as  are  certain  tracts  of  the  Fen-country  ; 
and  from  Skegness  to  the  Wash  there  are 
towns  and  "  resorts  "  so  numerous  and  so 
populous  that  long  reaches  of  solitude  might 
appear  as  unlikely  as  on  the  curve  of  Kent 
from  Herne  Bay  to  Margate.  But  it  is 
amazing  what  immense  tracts  of  solitude  are 
to  be  found  both  inland  and  on  the  seaboard 
of  East  Anglia.  It  is,  to  many  people,  not 
less  amazing  what  a  spell  "  the  dark  lands  " 
of  the  Lincolnshire  fens,  the  Norfolk  marsh- 
lands, the  sea-lands  of  Suffolk,  can  cast  over 
them. 

One  great  charm  for  those  who  love 
waste  places  and  solitude  is  the  sense  of 
something  tragical  in  nature.  That  element 
is  conspicuous  in  the  powerful  appeal  of 
the  wilder  or  more  desolate  regions  of 
maritime  East  Anglia.  When,  with  nothing 
visible  but  a  vast  level  of  seemingly  unstable 
land,  a  land  sombre  in  aspect  and  intricately 
interwoven  with  dark,  still,  sinuous  canals 
72 


Aylwin-Land :  Wales  and  East  Anglia 

and  blind  water -alleys  and  spreading  un- 
certain fens,  with  perhaps  not  a  house  or  a 
human  being  in  sight,  and  overhead  the 
immense  and  almost  oppressive  dome  of 
the  sky  .  .  .  generally  so  grey  or  so  cloud- 
strewn  in  the  continual  conflict  of  the  winds, 
but  sometimes  of  a  prolonged  and  imposing 
serenity,  and  often,  especially  in  autumn 
and  winter,  filled  with  the  most  marvellous 
emblazonry  of  radiant  flame  .  .  .  the  spirit 
may  not  be  moved  to  blitheness,  and  may 
well  be  affected  to  melancholy  ;  but  it  is 
also  habitually  uplifted  to  those  unpassing 
things  of  which  great  solitary  spaces  and 
still  loneliness  and  all  the  sombre  phantas- 
magoria of  land  and  sky  are  symbolic. 
But,  apart  from  this,  it  is  impossible  for  an 
imaginative  mind  to  confront  such  aspects 
in  such  a  region,  without  a  more  or  less 
painful  recognition  of  the  brevity  and  in- 
significance of  the  material  world.  Every- 
thing beneath  and  around  one  seems  shift- 
ing, uncertain,  unstable,  phantasmal :  a 
wavering  image,  to  adapt  Goethe's  phrase. 
Everything  beyond  and  above  seems  omi- 
nous, imminent,  inevitable.  For  below  this 
emotional  impression  is  the  knowledge  that  a 
tremendous  duel  has  long  been  fought  here, 
is  still  being  fought,  and  that  almost  certainly 
73 


Aylwin-Land  :  Wales  and  East  Anglia 

the  land  is  fighting  against  implacable  and 
stronger  forces.  Sea  and  land,  these  are 
the  titanic  protagonists  in  the  gigantic 
natural  drama  that  is  being  enacted  all 
along  the  northlands  from  Finistere  to 
Jutland,  and  nowhere  more  swiftly  and 
surely  than  on  the  coasts  of  Holland, 
Denmark,  and  East  Anglia. 

We  hear  often  of  the  continual  land- 
slipping  along  our  eastern  and  southern 
coasts,  and  oftener  of  that  along  Norfolk 
and  Suffolk,  and  of  the  persistent  en- 
croachments of  the  sea.  Few  of  us  are 
moved  to  any  anxiety,  for  to  the  inlander 
the  peril  is  neither  imminent  nor  obvious, 
and  the  ordinary  mind  is  slow  to  apprehend 
what  is  not  immediately  obvious,  or  to  be 
moved  by  what  is  not  imminent.  But  even 
the  general  apathy  is  now  being  aroused.  This 
is  due  in  part  to  the  deepening  anxiety  and 
emphatic  warnings  of  many  physical  geo- 
graphers and  other  authoritative  observers, 
but  still  more  to  the  rapid  and  many  evidences 
afforded  during  the  last  year  or  two  .  .  . 
years  of  frequent  storm  and  flood,  with  the 
water-loosened  lands  yet  further  disen- 
cumbered from  their  natural  bonds  and 
safeguards,  with  high  and  devastating  tides 
and  continually  encroaching  seas.  When 
74 


Aylwin-Land  :  Wales  and  East  Anglia 

that  remarkable  and  enthralling  little  book, 
Mr.  Beckles  Willson's  Story  of  Lost  England, 
was  published  a  year  or  two  ago,  many 
hasty  critics  assumed  that  its  data  were 
perturbing  only  to  a  few  dwellers  on  our 
extreme  coasts  ;  and  stress  was  laid  rather 
on  the  appalling  devastations  of  ancient 
history  than  on  the  not  less  implacable  duel 
that  has  been  enacted  ever  since,  and  is  now 
nearer  to  rather  than  more  remote  from 
tragical  issues.  It  is  deeply  regrettable 
that  there  are  no  Parliamentary  statistics 
concerning  the  present  state  of  erosion  : 
that  there  is  no  scientific  and  systematic 
observation  of  the  coasts  most  affected. 
Even  the  concentrated  item  of  knowledge 
that,  within  the  modern  period,  we  have 
lost  by  submersion  many  hundreds  of  square 
miles  of  territory  and  no  fewer  than  thirty- 
four  towns  and  villages,  did  not  induce  a 
Parliamentary  inquiry.  The  authentic  state- 
ment, with  its  menacing  implication,  was 
almost  everywhere  received  with  the  idea 
that  it  was  all  in  the  past  tense.*  But  even 

*  So  many  readers  will  know  Sheringham  that 
it  may  be  of  interest  to  quote  a  single  item  of  the 
long  and  convincing  tale  of  evidence  adduced  by 
Mr.  Beckles  Willson,  namely,  that  in  1829  a  frigate 
could  float  (in  20  feet  of  water)  where,  only 

75 


Aylwin-Land :  Wales  and  East  Anglia 

the  most  casually  remembered  records  of 
1903  and  the  first  months  of  1904  show  how 
futile  is  such  unreasoning  optimism.  This 
very  morning  I  read,  in  the  five -days' -old 
papers  that  have  just  reached  me  where  I 
write,  of  the  alarming  havoc  wrought  by 
floods,  gales,  and  tidal  seas,  at  the  end  of 
February  and  the  beginning  of  March  ;  of 
torn  beaches  and  snatched  lands  and  sub- 
merged shores  along  our  southern  and 
eastern  coasts,  of  the  collapse,  so  long 
threatened,  of  Dunwich  Cliff,  and  of  in- 
calculable and  in  many  cases  irremediable 
damage,  where  not  total  loss,  along  the 
whole  of  maritime  East  Anglia. 

In  the  Fens,  in  the  Broads,  on  the  vast 
sombre  East  Anglian  marshes  and  meadow- 
lands,  an  imaginative  mind  cannot  but  often 
become  aware  of  this  tragical  duel.  No- 
where in  England  is  it  so  near  and  present 
a  reality.  Dunwich,  Sidestrand,  many 
another  picturesque  spot  is  doomed  ;  and, 
inland,  many  a  pastoral  track  to-day  will 
in  a  not  distant  morrow  feel  the  salt  tide 
sweeping  irresistibly  across  it. 

Much  of  the  tragical  fascination,  as  well 
as  of  the  charm,  of  the  very  real  beauty  of 

forty-eight  years  before,  stood  a  cliff  50  feet  high, 
with  houses  upon  it  ! 

76 


Aylwin-Land :  Wales  and  East  Anglia 

both  inland  and  maritime  Norfolk,  is 
naturally  to  be  found  in  Aylwin.  The 
author  himself  has  more  than  once  witnessed 
one  of  those  landslips  which  are  the  dread 
of  the  region,  and  readers  of  his  famous 
romance  may  recall  the  description  of  the 
collapse  of  the  cliff-front  beyond  the  old 
church's  ruins  (The  passage  occurs,  it 
should  be  borne  in  mind,  in  a  scene  of  great 
dramatic  intensity  and  profound  emotion) : 

"  My  meditations  were  interrupted  by  a 
sound,  and  then  by  a  sensation  such  as  I 
cannot  describe.  Whence  came  that  shriek  ? 
It  was  like  a  shriek  coming  from  a  distance — 
loud  there,  faint  here,  and  yet  it  seemed  to 
come  from  me  !  It  was  as  though  I  were 
witnessing  some  dreadful  sight,  unutterable 
and  intolerable.  ...  At  my  feet  spread  the 
great  churchyard,  with  its  hundreds  of  little 
green  hillocks  and  white  gravestones, 
sprinkled  here  and  there  with  square,  box- 
like  tombs.  All  quietly  asleep  in  the  moon- 
light !  Here  and  there  an  aged  headstone 
seemed  to  nod  to  its  neighbour,  as  though 
muttering  in  its  dreams.  The  old  church, 
bathed  in  the  radiance,  seemed  larger  than 
it  had  ever  done  in  daylight,  and  incom- 
parably more  grand  and  lovely.  ...  On 
77 


Aylwin-Land  :  Wales  and  East  Anglia 

the  left  were  the  tall  poplar  trees,  rustling 
and  whispering  among  themselves.  Still, 
there  might  be  at  the  back  of  the  church 
mischief  working.  I  walked  round  thither. 
The  ghostly  shadows  on  the  long  grass  might 
have  been  shadows  thrown  by  the  ruins  of 
Tadmor,  so  quietly  did  they  lie  and  dream. 
A  weight  was  uplifted  from  my  soul.  A 
balm  of  sweet  peace  fell  upon  my  heart. 
The  noises  I  had  heard  had  been  imaginary, 
conjured  up  by  love  and  fear  ;  or  they 
might  have  been  an  echo  of  distant  thunder. 
The  windows  of  the  church,  no  doubt, 
looked  ghastly,  as  I  peered  in  to  see  whether 
Wynne's  lantern  was  moving  about.  But 
all  was  still.  I  lingered  in  the  churchyard 
close  by  the  spot  where  I  had  first  seen  the 
child  Winifred  and  heard  the  Welsh  song.  .  .  . 
I  went  to  look  at  the  sea  from  the  cliff. 
Here,  however,  there  was  something  sensa- 
tional at  last.  The  spot  where  years  ago  I 
had  sat  when  Winifred's  song  had  struck 
upon  my  ear  and  awoke  me  to  a  new  life — 
was  gone !  '  This,  then,  was  the  noise  I 
heard,'  I  said ;  '  the  rumbling  was  the 
falling  of  the  earth  ;  the  shriek  was  the 
tearing  down  of  trees.'  Another  slice,  a 
slice  weighing  thousands  of  tons,  had  slipped 
since  the  afternoon  from  the  churchyard  on 


Aylwin-Land  :   Wales  and  East  Anglia 

to  the  sands  below.  '  Perhaps  the  tread  of 
the  townspeople  who  came  to  witness  the 
funeral  may  have  given  the  last  shake  to  the 
soil,'  I  said.  I  stood  and  looked  over  the 
newly-made  gap  at  the  great  hungry  water. 
Considering  the  little  wind,  the  swell  on  the 
North  Sea  was  tremendous.  Far  away 
there  had  been  a  storm  somewhere.  The 
moon  was  laying  a  band  of  living  light 
across  the  vast  bosom  of  the  sea,  like  a 
girdle." 

Again,  all  readers  of  Ay  twin  will  re- 
member the  beautiful  opening  scene  where 
the  boy  who  is  to  be  the  hero  of  the  romance 
is  discovered  sitting  on  the  grassy  cliff-edge 
by  the  sea  :  and  how  at  once  the  author 
strikes  that  note  of  correspondence  on  which 
the  present  writer  has  just  dwelt : 

"...  sitting  there  as  still  as  an  image 
of  a  boy  in  stone,  at  the  forbidden  spot 
where  the  wooden  fence  proclaimed  the 
crumbling  hollow  crust  to  be  specially 
dangerous — sitting  and  looking  across  the 
sheer  deep  gulf  below.  .  .  .  The  very  gulls, 
wheeling  as  close  to  him  as  they  dared, 
seemed  to  be  frightened  at  the  little  boy's 
peril.  Straight  ahead  he  was  gazing,  how- 
ever— gazing  so  intently  that  his  eyes  must 
79 


Aylwin-Land  ;  Wales  and  East  Anglia 

have  been  seeing  very  much  or  else  very 
little  of  that  limitless  world  of  light  and 
coloured  shade.  .  .  .  Moreover,  there  was 
a  certain  something  in  his  eyes  that  was  not 
gypsy -like — a  something  which  is  not  un- 
commonly seen  in  the  eyes  of  boys  born 
along  that  coast,  whether  those  eyes  be 
black  or  blue  or  grey  ;  a  something  which 
cannot  be  described,  but  which  seems  like 
a  reflex  of  the  daring  gaze  of  that  great  land- 
conquering  and  daring  sea." 

And  it  was  through  a  landslip  that  Henry 
Ay  1  win  became  crippled  for  his  later  boy- 
hood and  youth  : 

"  My  punishment  came  at  last.  The 
coast,  which  is  yielding  gradually  to  the 
sea,  is  famous  for  sudden  and  gigantic  land- 
slips. These  landslips  are  sometimes 
followed,  at  the  return  of  the  tide,  by  a 
further  fall,  called  a  '  settlement.'  The 
word  '  settlement '  explains  itself,  perhaps. 
No  matter  how  smooth  the  sea,  the  return 
of  the  tide  seems  on  that  coast  to  have  a 
strange  magnetic  power  upon  the  land,  and 
the  tttbris  of  a  landslip  will  sometimes, 
though  not  always,  respond  to  it  by  again 
falling  and  settling  into  new  and  permanent 
shapes." 

80 


Aylwin-Land :  Wales  and  East  Anglia 

Watts-Dunton  has  recently  communicated 
to  more  than  one  interviewer  the  answer 
to  the    doubtless  often  asked  question  as 
to  /when  he  first  formed  his  acquaintance 
with  the  gypsies  :  but  to  Mr.  Blathwayt  he 
was   perhaps   more  explicit.     From   these, 
and  his  introduction  to  Sorrow's  Lavengro 
in    the    "  Minerva "    series,    his    obituary 
articles  in  The  Athenczum  on  George  Borrow 
and  Francis  Hindes  Groome,  and  his  pre- 
faces to  later  editions  of  Aylwin,  we  know 
that  the  acquaintance  began  before   "  the 
Gypsy  "  became  "  seductive  copy,"  before 
the    author    of    Aylwin    had    thought    of 
the  literary  aspect  at    all.     One    wonders 
what  would  have  happened  if  some  vivid 
romance    had    forestalled    Aylwin    during 
the  many  years  it  lay  in  a  retirement  as 
obscure,   if   not    as    wholly    forgotten,    as 
that     in     which     Waverley     lay     for     so 
long.      Would  the  author  have  still  pub- 
lished the  cherished  work  of  his  maturity, 
or — as    I    have    an    impression,     possibly 
a  wrong  impression,   that  I  have   read   in 
some  interview  or  personal   article — would 
he  have   refrained  from   entering  into  the 
lists  with  any  competitor  ?      It  is  known 
to  a  few  that  another  equally    authentic 
romance  of  gypsy  life   was  written  about 

iv  81  F 


Aylwin-Land  :  Wales  and  East  Anglia 

the  time  that  Aylwin  was  published,  but 
has  never  seen  the  light  of  print ;  for, 
though  distinct  in  style,  locality,  and  indeed 
whole  conception  and  treatment,  it  could 
not  have  appeared  subsequent  to 
Watts -Dunton's  romance  without  the  in- 
justice of  allegations  that  it  was  following 
suit  in  what  seemed  a  promising  vogue. 
Well,  fortunately  no  such  misadventure 
happened  for  Watts-Dunton,  and  so  he 
came  unchallenged  into  his  kingdom,  a 
kingdom  where  his  eminence  is  all  the  more 
marked  because  of  pioneers  such  as  George 
Borrow,  Francis  Hindes  Groome,  and  God- 
frey Leland. 

"CI  f shall  never  forget'  (says  Watts- 
Dunton,  in  his  interview-reminiscences)  '  my 
earliest  recollections  of  the  gypsies.  My 
father  used  sometimes  to  drive  in  a  dog-cart 
to  see  friends  of  his  through  about  twelve 
miles  of  Fen  country,  and  he  used  to  take 
me  with  him.  Let  me  say  that  the  Fen 
country  is  much  more  striking  than  is 
generally  supposed.  Instead  of  leafy  quick 
hedgerows,  as  in  the  midlands,  or  walls,  as 
in  the  north  country,  the  fields  are  divided 
by  dykes  :  not  a  tree  is  to  be  seen  in  some 
parts  for  miles  and  miles.  This  gives  an 
82 


Aylwin-Land :  Wales  and  East  Anglia 

importance   to   skies   such   as   is   observed 
nowhere  else,  except  on  the  open  sea.'  ' 

Theodore  Watts-Dunton's  local  partiality 
must  be  allowed  for  here,  of  course  :  the 
same  effects  with  kindred  conditions  are  to  be 
seen,  and  sometimes  even  more  impressively, 
in  Holland,  in  Denmark,  throughout 
Flanders,  in  much  of  Picardy,  in  the  vast 
Yorkshire  flats,  along  the  immense  level 
solitudes  of  Solway,  in  the  bare  dreary 
Cornish  moorlands,  on  Exmoor,  and  else- 
where : 

"  In  the  Fen  country  the  level,  monoto- 
nous greenery  of  the  crops  in  summer,  and, 
in  autumn  and  winter,  the  vast  expanse  of 
black  earth,  make  the  dome  of  the  sky,  by 
contrast,  so  bright  and  glorious  that  in 
cloudless  weather  it  gleams  and  suggests 
a  roof  of  rainbows  ;  and  in  cloudy  weather 
it  seems  almost  the  only  living  sight  in  the 
universe,  and  becomes  thus  more  magical 
still.  And  as  to  sunsets,  I  do  not  know 
any,  either  by  land  or  sea,  to  be  compared 
with  the  sunsets  to  be  seen  in  the  Fen 
country.  The  humidity  of  the  atmosphere 
has,  no  doubt,  a  good  deal  to  do  with  it. 
The  sun  frequently  sets  in  a  pageantry 

83 


Aylwin-Land :  Wales  and  East  Anglia 

of  gauzy   vapour   of   every   colour,    quite 
indescribable.  .  .  . 

"  The  first  evening,  then,  that  I  took  one 
of  these  drives,  while  I  was  watching  the 
wreaths  of  blue  curling  smoke  from  countless 
heaps  of  twitch-grass,  set  burning  by  the 
farm  labourers,  and  which  stretched  right 
up  to  the  sky-line,  my  father  pulled  up  the 
dog-cart,  and  pointed  to  a  ruddy  fire, 
glowing,  flickering,  and  smoking  in  an  angle 
where  a  green  grassy  drove -way  met  the 
dark -looking  high  road  some  yards  ahead. 
And  then  I  saw  some  tents,  and  then  a 
number  of  dusky  figures,  some  squatting 
near  the  fire,  some  moving  about.  '  The 
gypsies  !  '  I  said,  in  the  greatest  state  of 
exultation,  which  soon  fled,  however,  when 
I  heard  a  shrill  whistle,  and  saw  a  lot  of 
these  dusky  people  running  and  leaping  like 
wild  things  towards  the  dog-cart.  '  Will 
they  kiU  us,  father  ?  '  I  said.  '  Kill  us  ? 
No,'  he  said,  laughing  ;  '  they  are  friends  of 
mine.  They've  only  come  to  lead  the  mare 
past  the  fire  and  keep  her  from  shying  at  it.' 
They  came  flocking  up.  So  far  from  the 
mare  starting,  as  she  would  have  done  at 
such  an  invasion  by  English  people,  she 
seemed  to  know  and  welcome  the  gypsies 
by  instinct,  and  seemed  to  enjoy  their 


Aylwin-Land :  Wales  and  East  Anglia 

stroking  her  nose  with  their  tawny  but  well- 
shaped  fingers  and  caressing  her  neck. 
Among  them  was  one  of  the  prettiest  little 
gypsy  girls  I  ever  saw.  When  the  gypsies 
conducted  us  past  their  camp  I  was  fascin- 
ated by  the  charm  of  the  picture.  Outside 
the  tents  in  front  of  the  fire,  over  which  a 
kettle  was  suspended  from  an  upright  iron 
bar,  which  I  afterwards  knew  as  the  kettle- 
prop,  was  spread  a  large  dazzling  white 
tablecloth  covered  with  white  crockery, 
among  which  glittered  a  goodly  number  of 
silver  spoons.  I  afterwards  learnt  that  to 
possess  good  linen,  good  crockery,  and  real 
silver  spoons  was  as  *  passionate  a  desire  of 
the  Romany  chi  as  of  the  most  ambitious 
farmer's  wife  in  the  Fen  country.'  It  was 
from  this  little  incident  that  my  intimacy 
with  the  gypsies  dated.  I  associated  much 
with  them  in  after  life,  and  I  have  had  more 
experience  among  them  than  I  have  yet 
had  an  opportunity  of  recording  in  print. 
Though  they  hail  from  India  originally,  and 
though  their  language  is  broken  Sanscrit, 
yet  they  have  none  of  the  religions  of  the 
East.  They  are  intensely  conscientious  as 
regards  one  another.  They  believe  in  the 
Romany  '  sap,'  that  is,  the  snake  which 
bites,  or,  as  we  should  call  it,  *  conscience.' 
85 


Aylwin-Land :  Wales  and  East  Anglia 

Perhaps  the  most  interesting  thing  about 
the  real  gypsy  is  the  way  in  which  he  speaks 
.Romany  all  over  the  world.  It  is,  of  course, 
greatly  modified  by  the  country  in  which  he 
lives — Spain,  Wales,  Hungary,  Roumania, 
Roumelia  ;  but  it  is  all  broken  Sanscrit. 
They  are  a  very  gifted  people,  very  highly 
musical.  They  live  a  life  that  is  utterly 
apart,  a  life  with  its  own  habits,  its  own 
customs,  its  own  signs." 


"  I  need  not  describe  the  journey  to 
North  Wales,"  says  Henry  Ay  1  win  at  the 
beginning  of  the  third  part  of  the  romance 
which  bears  his  name  :  and  we  must  be 
content  to  leave  that  much-tried  but  occa- 
sionally somewhat  exasperating  "hero"  in 
the  parlour  of  the  Royal  Oak  at  Bettws-y- 
Coed.  It  is  a  temptation,  indeed,  to  follow 
him  on  the  second  morrow  of  his  arrival  in 
Wales — despite  "  the  rain  and  clouds  and 
mist  in  a  region  of  marshy  and  boggy 
hillocks  " — to  that  wayside  inn  where  we 
first  hear  of  Winifred  Wynne's  mysterious 
'*  Dukkeripen  "...  which  is  not  (as  Punch 
explained)  a  species  of  waterfowl,  but  the 
dread  fatality  of  a  curse.  For  here  it  is 
that  we  first  encounter  Sinn  Lovell ;  and 
86 


Aylwin-Land  :  Wales  and  East  Anglia 

than  that  first  encounter  with  the  real  if  not 
the  nominal  heroine  of  Ay  twin,  or  than  the 
vivid  description  of  old  Lovell's  beautiful 
chavi,  I  know  nothing  in  its  kind  more 
fascinating.  It  says  much  for  the  un- 
forgettable novelty  and  power  of  this 
chapter  that  it  remains  unaffected  by  the 
still  more  beautiful,  dramatic,  and  infinitely 
pathetic  chapter  which  follows — that  which 
describes  the  hero's  coming  upon  poor 
distraught  Winnie  in  the  lonely  cottage  on 
the  hillside. 

From  this  point  onward  the  book  is  full 
of  the  mountain  beauty  of  Wales.  A  score 
of  lovely  names  come  back  upon  one,  besides 
the  great  name  of  Snowdon  :  Mynydd 
Pencoed,  Llyn  Llydaw  (where  Winifred  was 
supposed  to  be  drowned),  Llyn  Ogwen, 
Llanbeblig,  and  the  Swallow  Falls  and  the 
Fairy  Glen,  Llyn  Idwal,  sombre  Llanberis, 
and  so  forth. 

In  a  book  so  full  of  the  sentiment  of 
the  Welsh  highlands,  it  is  not  easy  to  select 
an  adequately  representative  descriptive 
passage.  Perhaps  none  could  be  better 
than  the  beautiful  finale  of  the  closing 
Llanberis  chapter  ...  a  time  by  which 
every  reader  will  be  inclined  to  sympathise 
with,  if  not  to  endorse,  the  author's  avowal 


Aylwin-Land  :  Wales  and  East  Anglia 

..."  other  mountainous  countries  in 
Europe  are  beautiful  .  .  .  but  for  associa- 
tions romantic  and  poetic  there  is  surely 
no  land  in  the  world  equal  to  North  Wales  "  : 

"  The  sun  was  now  on  the  point  of  sinking, 
and  his  radiance,  falling  on  the  cloud- 
pageantry  of  the  zenith,  fired  the  flakes  and 
vapoury  films  floating  and  trailing  above, 
turning  them  at  first  into  a  ruby -coloured 
mass,  and  then  into  an  ocean  of  rosy  fire. 
A  horizontal  bar  of  cloud,  which,  until  the 
radiance  of  the  sunset  fell  upon  it,  had 
been  dull  and  dark  and  grey,  as  though 
a  long  slip  from  the  slate  quarries  had  been 
laid  across  the  west,  became  for  a  moment 
a  deep  lavender  colour,  and  then  purple,  and 
then  red -gold.  But  what  Winnie  was  point- 
ing at  was  a  dazzling  shaft  of  quivering  fire 
where  the  sun  had  now  sunk  behind  the 
horizon.  Shooting  up  from  the  cliffs  where 
the  sun  had  disappeared,  this  shaft  in- 
tersected the  bar  of  clouds  and  seemed  to 
make  an  irregular  cross  of  deep  rose." 


But  before  we  leave  "  Aylwin-land,"  east 
and  west,  a  word  should  be  said  for  a  little 
outlying    Thames-side   parish.     Every   one 
88 


Aly win-Land  ;  Wales  and  East  Anglia 

familiar  with  the  life  of  William  Morris  and 
Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti  knows  of  Kelmscott 
Manor,  the  delightful  "  old-world  "  river- 
side home  on  the  upper  reaches  of  the 
Thames,  where  so  much  of  the  verse  of  both 
poets  was  written,  and  of  which  the  present 
writer  has  something  to  say  in  a  later 
paper  in  this  series — that  on  the  Literary 
Geography  of  the  Thames.  Here,  too, 
certain  chapters  of  Ay  twin,  certain  poems 
of  The  Coming  of  Love  volume,  were  written. 
It  is  to  Kelmscott  Manor,  too,  disguised  as 
Hurstcote  Manor  (one  recalls  Rossetti's 
lyric,  "  Betwixt  Holmscote  and  Hurstcote, 
the  river-reaches  wind  ")  that  the  heroine 
of  Aylwin  comes  when  at  last  in  her  right 
mind  again — and,  needless  almost  to  point 
out  at  this  late  date,  the  painter  D'Arcy 
who  there  befriends  her,  and  Sinn  also,  is  no 
other  than  Rossetti. 

It  is  with  regret  that  every  reader  must 
say  good-bye  to  these  three  women,  who 
are  half  of  this  world  and  half  of  the 
imagination — Winifred,  Sinn,  and  Rhona. 
Even  Videy  Lovell,  indeed,  for  all  her 
naughty  ways,  is  too  rare  and  delightful  a 
vision  in  contemporary  fiction  to  let  go 
from  our  ken  without  regret.  To  those 
who  have  been  in  intimate  touch  with 


Aylwin- Land :  Wales  and  East  Anglia 

average  gypsy -life  she  is,  to  say  the  least 
of  it,  as  vividly  real  as  either  of  her  sisters, 
few  as  are  the  lines  which  are  spared  to 
her. 

Certainly  their  literary  sponsor's  first 
meeting  with  a  Romany  encampment  is  a 
matter  of  no  little  moment. 

It  is  in  the  fifth  section  of  the  first  part  of 
Aylwin  that  we  first  come  upon  that  wonder- 
ful glimpse  of  (in  literature)  an  all  but 
wholly  new  gypsy  life — for  though  George 
Borrow  preceded  the  author  of  Aylwin,  and 
is  still  first  of  all  who  have  re-created  gypsy 
life  for  us,  he  has  not  revealed  to  us  just 
what  Sinn  Lovell  and  Rhona  Boswell 
reveal.  It  is  true  that  neither  of  these 
can  ever  oust  the  perhaps  more  common- 
place but  intensely  real  and  human  Isopel 
Berners.  It  is  obvious,  too,  that  Sinfi  Lovell, 
though  "  real "  both  in  the  imaginative 
and  the  actual  sense,  is  not  (despite 
the  enamoured  claims  of  the  author  and 
even  other  gypsologists)  a  type — i.e.  is 
not  distinctively  typical  of  the  gypsy 
girl  .  .  .  otherwise  that  wandering  people 
would  long  ago  have  snared  the  hearts 
of  all  the  poets  of  the  world,  have  com- 
pelled all  songs  and  all  music  to  their 
service,  and  created  a  new  order  of  ideals. 
90 


Aylwin-Land :  Wales  and  East  Anglia 

It  is  nothing  against  the  verisimilitude  of 
her  portraiture,  against  the  fictional  and 
directly  personal  statements  of  her  limner, 
or  the  corroborative  evidence  that  is  now 
available,  to  aver  that  Sinfi  is  no  more  a 
representative  gypsy  woman  than  a  re- 
presentative Welsh  or  English  or  any  other 
racial  type.  Wherever  or  among  whatso- 
ever people  she  lived  she  would  be  that 
outstanding  and  abstract  beauty — "  the 
eternal  phantom,  Helen  " — which  may  have 
the  external  accident  of  period  or  of  locality 
or  of  race,  but  is  really  independent  of  those, 
being  far  above  the  ordinary  upper  reaches 
of  her  own  "  type."  We  believe  in  her, 
not  only  as  Sinfi  Lovell,  but  as  a  real  gypsy 
girl ;  but  we  know  that  "  Sinfis "  must 
be  as  rare  among  the  gypsy  people  as  her 
like  would  be  among  any  other  people. 
Helen  of  Troy  was  a  Greek  woman,  but  was 
not  "  Greek  women  "  ;  Cleopatra  was  an 
Egyptian,  but  was  not  "  Egyptian  women  "  ; 
and  certainly  Sinfi  Lovell,  though  a  gypsy 
woman,  is  not  "  gypsy  women."  But  it 
is  Watts-Dunton's  distinction  to  have 
given  us  two  new  women  in  that  roll  of 
what  Blake  calls  "the  wooers  of  dreams," 
that  roll  of  beautiful  women  from  Homer's 
to  Shakespeare's,  from  Scott's  to  George 


Aylwin-Land  :  Wales  and  East  Anglia 

Meredith's.  As  for  Rhona  Boswell,  she  is 
one  of  the  freshest  and  brightest  inspirations 
of  modern  writing  :  "  the  silver  bells  "  of 
her  laughter  will  long  be  heard  both  in 
poetic  and  prose  literature,  and  in  the  vast 
and  varied  geography  of  literature  itself 
there  will  always  be  a  little  woodland  niche 
called  "  Gypsy  Dell." 


92 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  CARLYLE 

IT  is  no  small  fortune  for  a  writer  to  have  as 
his  birthland  a  region  of  beautiful  names,  of 
old  and  romantic  associations.  The  poetry 
of  these  enters  the  blood.  Youth  may  not 
note,  and  manhood  or  womanhood  may 
ignore,  but  in  maturer  years  the  very  mention 
of  an  obscure  hamlet,  a  running  water,  a 
field  by  the  burnside,  will  flood  the  memory 
with  light  as  wonderful  as  moonshine. 
Think  of  how  Chaucer,  Spenser,  Milton, 
Wordsworth,  Burns,  Scott,  have  filled  their 
verse  with  the  quiet  music  of  old  places, 
old  names.  What  charm  in  those  pages 
of  Stevenson,  when,  from  some  mountain 
solitude  in  Colorado  or  from  the  isles  of 
Samoa,  he  recalls  the  manse  at  Swans  ton, 
or  the  grey -green  links  opposite  Fidra  or 
the  Bass,  or  the  green  hollows  of  Pentland  ! 
To  the*  Devonian  and  the  Cornishman  what 
pleasure  to  come  upon  the  fragrant  old- 
world  names  in  the  romances  of  Charles 
Kingsley  and  Blackmore  and  Baring  Gould  ! 
Tennyson  declared  once,  when  passing 
93 


The  Country  of  Carlyle 

through  an  ancient  hamlet  in  West  Sussex, 
"  What  good  luck  to  be  born  in  this  county 
of  quaint  and  lovely  names  !  Where  else 
would  one  find  a  peasant  called  Oswald 
Paris  or  Stephen  Songthrush  ?  and  would 
any  one  but  a  Sussex  yokel  call  the  swallow 
a  '  squeaker  '  and  the  cuckoo  a  '  yaffer,' 
and  '  transmogrify '  the  wild  arum  into 
'  lamb-in-the-pulpit'  ?  "  And  I  recall  a  like 
remark  made  to  me  many  years  ago  by 
Matthew  Arnold,  from  whom  I  first  heard 
of  that  lovely  Buckinghamshire  region  now 
made  easy  of  reach  by  the  railway  extension 
from  Rickmansworth  .  .  .  that  valley  of 
the  Chess  where  he  loved  to  angle,  and 
where  he  composed  so  much  in  prose  and 
verse  :  "  What  a  happy  fortune  to  be  a 
native  of  a  region  like  this,  with  such 
delightful  names  as  Chenies  and  Latimer 
arid  Chesham  Bois  and  Chalfont  St.  Giles. 
.  .  .  Norman  roses  in  old  Saxon  home- 
steads !  " 

However,  even  a  Northerner  may  not 
always  be  able  to  appreciate  the  beauty  of 
certain  names  familiar  north  of  the  Tweed  : 
Camlachie,  the  Gorbals,  Drumsheugh,  they 
are  not  euphonious.  So,  for  their  own  sake, 
we  must  not  expect  Southron  sympathy  for 
the  names  of  the  two  most  famous  places  in 
94 


The  Country  of  Carlyle 

the  Carlyle  country.  Ecclefechan  and 
Craigenputtock  do  not  make  a  delicate  music. 
The  lyric  poet  would  regard  either  with 
disgust.  But  for  Thomas  Carlyle  there 
were  no  word-bells  to  ring  a  more  home- 
sweet  chime.  He  could  dispense  with  these, 
however,  when  recalling  the  names  of  other 
native  localities  made  musical  to  the  ears 
and  the  memories  of  his  countrymen  : 
Kirkconnell  Lea,  wedded  to  deathless  ballad- 
music  ;  Sol  way  Moss,  with  its  echo  of 
tramping  hoofs  and  lost  battle-cries  ;  Annan 
Water,  and  the  dark  Moor  of  Lochar,  and 
solitary  Cummer  trees,  lonely  lands  of  The 
Red  Gauntlet ;  silent  Caerlaverock,  that 
once  was  Caerlaverock  of  the  Bugles  ;  the 
dim  Water  of  Urr  ;  Drumlanrig  Woods  ; 
Durisdeer  among  the  hills  ;  the  heaths  of 
Sanquhar  ;  the  Keir  Hills,  where  the  first 
cuckoo  is  heard  ;  the  dark  narrow  water  of 
Sark,  bordered  with  yellow  flag  and  tangled 
peat -moss,  that  once  ran  red  with  the 
blood  of  English  thousands.  Then  there 
are  Nithsdale  and  Eskdale,  and  Strathannan, 
in  whose  heart  the  Bruce  was  born  and 
Burns  died ;  Repentance  Hill,  with  its 
grey  peel,  where  once  the  Lord  Herries, 
Warden  of  the  West  March,  stained  his 
soul  with  the  blood  of  hapless  men,  so 
95 


The  Country  of  Carlyle 

that  to  this  day  the   ballad-singer   croons 
of  how 

He  sat  him  on  Repentance  Hicht 
An'  glower' d  upon  the  sea  ; 

Tynedale  Fell,  overlooking  the  mountain  - 
lands  of  Cumberland  and  Galloway  ;  Glen- 
esslin,  where  once  the  forbidden  hymns  of 
the  Covenant  rose  on  Sabbath  morns  ; 
Cluden  Water,  where  the  harps  of  Faery 
have  been  heard  ;  and  Irongrey  Kirkyard, 
where  Helen  Walker,  immortal  as  Jeanie 
Deans,  sleeps  in  peace.  A  score  or  more 
names  of  like  beauty  and  import  will  come 
to  the  mind  of  the  North -country  man  of  the 
Marches,  from  Gretna  Green  to  where 
shadowy  Loch  Urr  sends  her  dark  waters 
past  Craigenputtock  Hill  (that  long  prow- 
shaped  Crag  of  the  Hawks  where  Carlyle  and 
Emerson  spent  hours  one  summer  day 
discussing  the  immortality  of  the  soul) ; 
then  southward  beyond  Glaisters,  where 
"  Teufelsdrockh  "  for  long  took  his  solitary 
"  gloaming-shots,"  as,  in  a  letter  to  his 
mother,  he  calls  his  twilight  walks  ;  and  at 
last  to  that  grey  water  of  Solway  whose  tidal 
flow  farther  east  will  wash  Glencaple  Quay 
— that  small  haven  whence  seventy  years 
ago  the  packet-boat  was  wont  to  sail  with 


The  Country  of  Carlyle 

south -faring  passengers  for  the  port  of 
Liverpool,  and  that  one  August  morning  in 
1831  carried  Thomas  Carlyle  out  of  Scotland 
to  seek  fortune  with  the  manuscript  of 
Sartor  Resartus. 

The  country  of  Carlyle  is  an  actual 
country.  We  do  not  seek  it  under  the 
guidance  of  his  imagination,  either  in  the 
Sartor  Resartus  of  a  fictitious  Germany,  or 
in  the  turbulent  Paris  or  the  wild  and 
distorted  France  of  The  French  Revolution. 
It  is  certainly  not  to  be  found  in  the  History 
of  Frederick  the  Great,  or  in  that  of  Oliver 
Cromwell.  The  Carlyle  country  is  the  native 
land,  the  native  regions,  where  the  great 
writer  spent  his  boyhood  and  youth  and  so 
much  of  his  early  manhood ;  where  he 
returned  whenever  he  could  ;  whither  his 
remembrance  and  longing  continually  went  ; 
the  lands  of  his  love,  his  people,  his  strength, 
his  heart. 

There  is,  of  course,  one  obvious  exception 
— London.  The  hackneyed  phrase  "  the 
Sage  of  Chelsea "  reveals  the  extent  tv 
which,  in  the  general  mind,  Carlyle  has 
become  supremely  identified  with  one 
locality,  and  that  in  a  city  he  did  not 
love,  and  where  his  least  happy  if  his 
most  famous  years  were  lived.  As  "  the  Sage 

iv  97  G 


The  Country  of  Carlyle 

of  Chelsea "  he  will  doubtless  long  be 
remembered ;  "  like  old  china,"  as  he 
remarked  once,  "  however  cracked  and 
time  worn,  that  is  preserved  because  of 
the  shibboleth  of  its  name."  Doubtless  he 
would  have  much  preferred  to  be  known  as 
the  Sage  of  Annandale.  Perhaps,  if  he 
could,  he  would  very  gladly  have  prevented 
any  such  nomenclature  at  all.  He  did  not 
love  labels,  though  an  adept  at  affixing 
them. 

I  recollect  an  amusing  story  told  by  the 
late  Dr.  George  Bird  (that  delightful  racon- 
teur, whose  vivid  memory  embraced  half 
a  century  of  intimate  acquaintance  with 
many  of  the  most  distinguished  men  and 
women  of  the  Victorian  era),  though  it  was 
not,  I  fancy,  at  first  hand,  and  for  all  I  know 
to  the  contrary  may  have  already  appeared, 
though  I  have  not  met  with  it.  One  day 
Carlyle  was  walking  with  a  friend  near  the 
Marble  Arch  end  of  Hyde  Park  ("  black-felt 
coat,  whitey-grey  trousers,  wide  whitey-grey 
felt  hat,  old-fashioned  stock,  a  thick  walking- 
stick,  hair  more  grizzly  than  usual,  beard 
still  more  so,  face  furrowed,  a  heavy 
frown  "),  and  had  stopped  to  listen  to  a 
stump  orator  addressing  an  indolent  and 
indifferent  crowd  on  the  question  of  the 


The  Country  of  Carlyle 

franchise.  Suddenly  a  rough-hewn  worthy 
detached  himself  from  a  group,  and,  without 
word  of  greeting  or  other  preamble,  ad- 
dressed himself  to  Carlyle  in  a  broad 
Annan  dale  accent. 

"  Whit,  now,  ye'll  be  Tarn  Carlyle  frae 
Ecclefechan  ?  " 

The  great  man  nodded,  his  eyes  twinkling. 

"  An'  they  ca'  ye  the  Sage  o'  Chelsea  ?  " 

"  They  do,  puir  buddies  !  "  (this  in  the 
same  vernacularism). 

"  Weel,"  said  the  man  scornfully,  "  I've 
heard  o'  the  wurrd  applyit  in  connection 
wi'  a  burrd  I'll  no  name,  but  never  afore 
this  wi'  a  self-respecting  mon  /  " 

Carlyle  laughed  heartily,  but  remarked 
afterwards  to  his  companion  that  his  com- 
patriot's crude  satire  "  had  the  gist  o'  guid 
common  sense  in  't," — "  for  who  am  I,"  he 
added,  "  or  who  is  any  man,  to  be  held 
above  all  his  fellows  as  the  Sage,  and  worse, 
as  the  Sage  ?  " 

But  though  it  would  be  impossible  to 
ignore  Chelsea  in  connection  with  the 
"  literary  geography  "  of  Carlyle's  life,  we 
will  all  agree  doubtless  as  to  his  "country  " 
being  restricted  to  what  he  himself,  in  pride 
and  love,  would  have  called  his  own  land. 
That  land,  of  course,  lies  between  the  Water 
99 


The  Country  of  Carlyle 

of  Sark  on  the  east — the  boundary  between 
Cumberland  and  the  Scottish  border — and 
the  Water  of  Urr  on  the  west,  where  Gallo- 
way lies  against  the  farther  highlands  of 
Dumfries.  It  includes  Dumfries  town  and 
Annan,  where  the  boy  "  first  learned  the 
humanities  "  ;  Mainhill  Farm,  where  his 
parents  lived,  and  that  was  so  long  a  home 
to  him  ;  the  farms  of  Hoddam  and  Scots- 
brig  ;  Templand,  where  he  and  Jane  Welsh 
were  wedded  ;  Craigenputtock,  where  his 
happiest  years  were  spent;  and,  "capital" 
of  the  Carlyle  country,  Ecclefechan,  where 
he  was  born,  and  where  at  last  he  was 
brought  again  to  rest  in  peace  with  his 
own  people. 

It  has  been  a  moot  point  with  many 
correspondents  and  commentators,  in  con- 
nection with  this  series  of  Literary  Geo- 
graphy, whether  regions  where  a  famous 
author  has  spent  time  and  which  he  has 
commemorated  in  his  writings  should  be 
ranked  as  his  "  country."  Some  have 
thought  that  a  writer's  "  country  "  should 
be  the  lands  of  or  regions  brought  under  the 
sway  of  his  imagination,  as  Provence  and 
Palestine  in  the  instance  of  the  author  of 
Quentin  Durward  and  The  Talisman,  as 
Samoa  or  Silverado  or  Fontainebleau  in  the 
100 


The  Country  of  CarlyU 

instance  of  Stevenson.  Others  have  held 
that  the  "  country  "  should  be  the  actual 
country  of  birth  and  upbringing  and  resi- 
dence. Others  have  gone  further,  and 
argued  that  wherever  a  great  writer  has 
sojourned  and  where  he  has  thought  out  or 
actually  composed  romance  or  poem  or  other 
rare  achievement,  there  is  his  land,  or  at 
least  one  of  his  outlying  provinces.  It 
might  be  pleasant  to  say  that  because 
Carlyle  spent  a  time  with  Sir  George  Sinclair 
at  Thurso  Castle,  and  from  the  shores  of 
Caithness  dreamed  across  the  North  Sea 
towards  Iceland  of  the  Vikings,  therefore 
Caithness  has  become  part  of  his  "  country." 
Even  so  un-Carlylean  a  place  as  Mentone 
might  be  thus  claimed  for  him.  But, 
obviously  the  plea  is  fallacious.  Can,  for 
example,  the  Isle  of  Wight  be  considered  as 
within  Turgeniev's  "  country,"  because  there 
the  great  Russian  sojourned  awhile  and 
wrote  one  of  his  most  famous  romances  ? 
Can  Kensington  Gardens  be  considered  an 
appanage  of  Chateaubriand-land,  because 
the  great  Frenchman  composed  Rene  in 
the  pleasant  shadow  of  these  Bayswater 
glades  ?  Or  is  Wimbledon  (is  it  Wimble- 
don ? )  a  section  of  the  vast  territories  of  the 
Rougon-Maquart  clan  because  M.  Zola 
101 


The  Country  of  Carlyle 

dwelt  there  awhile  in  exile  with  Mr.  Vizetelly, 
and  on  an  epic  scale  pondered  a  London  ? 
Imagine  Voltaire's  ironical  smile  if  informed 
that  the  Voltaire  country  included  certain 
parishes  of  Surrey  and  Middlesex  ;  or 
Heine's  caustic  comment  if  told  that  the 
hardly-by-him-beloved  British  capital  was 
a  section  of  Heine-land  ? 

Perhaps  the  happiest  compromise  is  in 
the  instance  of  a  writer  like  George  Eliot, 
whose  own  country  and  whose  most  enduring 
country  of  the  imagination  are  practically 
identical. 

In  the  instance  of  Carlyle  there  need  not 
be  much  perplexity.  His  wanderings  from 
Dumfriesshire  in  the  north  or  from  Chelsea 
in  the  south  were  few  and  unimportant. 
Little  of  his  work  was  done  abroad  ;  though 
the  Reminiscences  were  begun  at  Mentone  in 
1867,  whither  Carlyle  went  in  December 
with  Professor  Tyndall.  More  notable  were 
the  German  wayfarings,  when  Carlyle  was 
on  the  quest  of  Frederick's  battlefields. 
He  travelled  in  Flanders,  in  Holland,  in 
Ireland  :  brief  visits,  and  in  his  literature, 
unimportant.  In  East  Anglia,  of  course, 
one  would  not  forget  his  raid  into  Cromwell* 
land.  Cromwell  was  begun  in  1842,  and 
in  a  letter  to  Thomas  Erskine  of  Linlathen 
102 


The  Country  of  Carlyle 

the  author  spoke  of  his  "  three  days'  riding 
excursion  into  Oliver  Cromwell's  country  : 
where  I  smoked  a  cigar  on  his  broken  horse- 
block in  the  old  city  of  Ely,  under  the  stars, 
beside  the  graves  of  St.  Mary's  churchyard  ; 
and  almost  wept  to  stand  upon  the  flag- 
stones, under  the  setting  sun,  where  he 
ordered  the  refractory  parson — '  Leave  off 
your  fooling,  and  come  out,  Sir  !  '  " 

Between  the  Solway  coast  and  that  of  far 
Caithness,  there  are  few  parts  of  Scotland, 
save  the  remoter  Western  Highlands  and 
Isles,  which  at  one  time  or  another  he  had 
not  visited.  In  Kirkcaldy,  on  the  Fife 
coast,  he  lived  a  couple  of  years,  school - 
mastering,  when  but  a  youth  himself.  Not 
much  was  done  here  in  actual  achievement  ; 
but  much  reading  and  study  were  accom- 
plished ;  and  in  his  long  walks  with  Irving, 
afterwards  to  become  so  famous,  Carlyle 
learned  much  that  he  could  not  have  found 
in  books.  Here,  again,  he  stayed  awhile  in 
1874  with  his  friend  Provost  Swan.  I  have 
seen  an  unpublished  photograph  of  him  at 
this  time,  taken  in  the  garden  of  friends 
who  lived  near  North  Queensferry  ;  and  cer- 
tainly, to  judge  by  appearances,  witty  and 
winsome  Jeanie  Welsh  "  had  her  handful,"  as 
they  say  in  Fife.  As  her  husband  remarked 
103 


The  Country  of  Carlyle 

to  Mr.  Symington,  when  complaining  once  of 
the  exaggerations  of  the  photographer,  "  I'm 
revealed  as  an  old,  rascally,  ruffian,  obfus- 
cated goose." 

Kirkcaldy  is  hardly  a  place  to  suggest 
poetry,  but  there  are  few  passages  in  Carlyle 
more  haunting  than  that  memory  of  "  the 
lang  toon  "  in  the  Reminiscences  ;  "  the 
beach  of  Kirkcaldy,  in  summer  twilights,  a 
mile  of  the  smoothest  sand,  with  one  long 
wave  coming  on,  gently,  steadily,  and 
breaking  in  gradual  explosion,  accurately 
gradual,  into  harmless  melodious  white,  at 
your  hand,  all  the  way  (the  break  of  it) 
rushing  along  like  a  mane  of  foam,  beauti- 
fully sounding  and  advancing,  ran  from 
south  to  north.  .  .  .  We  roved  in  the  woods, 
too,  sometimes,  till  all  was  dark." 

Again,  and  not  least  of  his  temporary 
homes  away  from  his  own  "  country,"  was 
Kinnaird  House,  in  a  glen  near  Dunkeld. 
Here,  while  a  resident  tutor,  he  "moped  " 
much,  saw  his  friend  Irving  on  his  honey- 
moon, wrote  love-letters  to  Annandale, 
where  Jane  Welsh  lived  with  her  mother, 
and  during  his  nine  months'  stay  wrote 
most  of  his  Life  of  Schiller  and  translated 
the  greater  part  of  Goethe's  Wilhelm  Meister. 

Once  more,  who  of  us  happening  to  be  in 
104 


The  Country  of  Carlyle 

the  desolate  iron -country  of  Muirkirk  of 
Ayr  but  would  recall  that  day-long  walk  of 
Carlyle  and  Irving  among  the  peat-hags 
of  Drumclog  Moss,  when  the  younger 
confided  to  the  other  the  secrets  of  his 
spiritual  life  ?  "  These  peat-hags  are  still 
pictured  in  me  :  brown  bog,  all  pitted,  and 
broken  into  heathy  remnants  and  bare 
abrupt  wide  holes,  four  or  six  feet  deep,  a 
flat  wilderness  of  broken  bog,  of  quagmire 
not  to  be  trusted  "  [the  scene  of  many  a 
Covenanters'  meeting,  and  immortalised  by 
Scott  as  the  locality  of  Claver'se  (Claver- 
house)  Skirmish]  :  "I  know  not  that  we 
talked  much  of  this,  but  we  did  of  many 
things  ...  a  colloquy  the  sum  of  which  is 
still  mournfully  beautiful  to  me,  though  the 
details  are  gone.  I  remember  us  sitting  on 
a  peat-hag,  the  sun  shining,  our  own  voices 
the  one  sound  ;  far,  far  away  to  westward, 
over  our  brown  horizon,  towered  up,  white 
and  visible  at  the  many  miles  of  distance,  a 
high  irregular  pyramid.  Ailsa  Craig  /  we 
at  once  guessed,  and  thought  of  the  seas 
and  oceans  over  yonder."  Or  there  is  that 
other  walk  by  the  lovely  shores  of  Aberdour  : 
"  the  summer  afternoon  was  beautiful ; 
beautiful  exceedingly  our  solitary  walk  by 
Burntisland  and  the  sands  and  rocks  to 
105 


The  Country  of  Carlyle 

Inverkeithing  " ;  or  Moffatdale  with  its 
green  holms  and  hill -ranges  ;  or  a  score 
other  such  excursions,  memorable  in  all 
ways,  and  for  intimate  associations  above 
all.  Many  of  my  readers  will  know,  some 
may  have  landed  on  that  lonely  isle  of 
Inchkeith,  and  wandered  among  the  coney- 
haunted  grasses  and  over  by  the  Russian 
graves,  and  from  the  same  "wild  stony 
little  bay "  where  Carlyle  landed  have 
looked  on  that  scene  which,  he  tells  us  in  his 
Reminiscences,  seemed  to  him  the  "  beauti- 
fullest  he  had  ever  beheld "  .  .  .  "  Sun 
just  about  setting  straight  in  face  of  us, 
behind  Ben  Lomond  far  away,  Edinburgh 
with  its  towers,  the  great  silver  mirror  of  the 
Frith,  girt  by  such  a  frame  work  of  mountains, 
cities,  rocks  and  fields  and  wavy  landscape, 
on  all  hands  of  us  ;  and  reaching  right  under- 
foot (as  I  remember)  came  a  broad  pillar  as  of 
gold  from  the  just  sinking  sun  ;  burning 
axle,  as  it  were,  going  down  to  the  centre  of 
the  world  !  " 

But  we  might  traverse  Scotland,  highland 
and  lowland,  if  we  recall  overmuch.  After 
all,  we  must  hark  back  to  the  Kir  tie  Water 
and  the  winding  Mein,  to  moor-set  Eccle- 
fechan,  Mainhill  and  Scotsbrig  and  Hoddam, 
to  remote  Craigenputtock. 
106 


The  Country  of  Carlyle 

As  to  Carlyle's  town  life,  that  was  un- 
equally divided  between  London  and  Edin- 
burgh, for  in  the  latter  he  spent  far  fewer 
months  than  the  tale  of  years  he  spent  in 
Chelsea.  To  Edinburgh  he  and  his  young 
wife  went  in  1826,  and  lived  for  eighteen 
months  at  21  Comely  Bank,  then  an 
isolated  country -clasped  suburb  of  Edin- 
burgh on  its  north-western  side,  with  its 
back  to  the  Forth  and  its  front  towards  the 
Hill  of  Corstorphine  and  its  deep  woods  : 
our  "  trim  little  cottage,"  he  wrote  at  the 
time  he  was  contributing  his  first  essays  to 
the  Edinburgh  and  the  Foreign  Quarterly 
reviews,  "  far  from  the  uproar  and  putres- 
cence (material  and  spiritual)  of  the  reeky 
town,  the  sound  of  which  we  hear  not, 
and  only  see  over  the  knowe  the  reflection 
of  its  gaslights  against  the  dusky  sky." 
He  had  already  had  experience  of  Edinburgh, 
where,  as  a  student  at  the  University,  he  had 
lived  in  Simon  Square,  off  Nicholson  Street, 
then  a  poor  and  now  a  sordid  region  ;  and, 
after  one  or  two  unfortunate  experiments, 
at  No.  i  Moray  Street  (now  Spey  Street), 
Leith  Walk,  of  special  interest  to  us,  as  it 
was  here  he  first  began  in  earnest  that 
literary  work  which  he  was  to  carry  to  such 
a  magnificent  development.  It  is  a  street 
107 


The  Country  of  Carlyle 

to  be  remembered  of  every  reader  of  Sartor 
Resartus,  all  of  whose  Teutonically  hued 
pages  were  coloured  from  home -dyes.  Who 
does  not  know  that  the  German  realm 
"  Weissnichtwo "  is  no  other  than  the 
"  Kennaquhair  "  of  Annandale  ;  that  "  En- 
tepfuhl,"  that  centre  of  the  world,  is  the 
homely  Scottish  village  of  Ecclefechan ; 
and  that  even  Blumine,  that  fair  maiden 
of  the  famous  "  Romance  of  Clothes,"  was 
no  Saxon  fra^ile^n  but  a  winsome  lass  o5 
Kirkcaldy  ?  For  Spey  Street  or  Moray 
Street,  or  in  its  ampler  dignity  as  Leith 
Walk,  is  the  "Rue  Saint  Thomas  de 
PEnfer  "  of  Sartor. 

In  London,  also,  Carlyle  resided,  now 
here,  now  there,  before  he  took  the  house 
in  Cheyne  Row  where  he  lived  from  1834 
till  his  death  forty-seven  years  later.  Chief 
of  these  temporary  metropolitan  homes  was 
4  Ampton  Street,  Gray's  Inn  Road.  Here 
in  the  early  summer  of  1834  ne  and  his  wife 
came,  after  their  burning  of  their  ship  of 
Craigenputtock  behind  them  ;  here  again 
earlier,  in  mid-winter  of  1831-2,  they  were 
staying,  with  Sartor  Resartus  (on  which 
hung  so  many  hopes)  just  started  on  its  un- 
popular serial  course  through  Fraser's,  when 
the  news  came  of  the  death  of  that  "  silent, 
108 


The  Country  of  Carlyle 

strong  man,"  Carlyle  the  elder,  at  the  farm 
of  Scotsbrig — the  famous  writer's  "  last 
parental  nest  in  beloved  Annandale." 

All  readers  of  the  Reminiscences,  and  of 
Froude  and  Eliot  and  other  biographers, 
know  how  nearly  Bayswater  or  Bloomsbury 
was  given  preference  over  Chelsea.  No.  5 
(now  24)  Cheyne  Row,  however,  carried  the 
day.  For  long,  even  in  Carlyle's  lifetime, 
one  of  the  chief  literary  shrines  of  the 
Metropolis,  it  is  now  more  visited  by 
thousands  annually,  from  all  parts  of  the 
world,  than  any  other  dwelling  of  the  kind 
in  London.  Needless  to  write  about  a 
house  and  neighbourhood  so  widely  familiar, 
or  of  what  may  now  be  seen  there  by  the 
curious.  It  is  still  the  chief  jewel  in  the 
crown  of  Chelsea,  But  the  unwary  must  not 
go  thither  expecting  the  pleasant  quarters 
of  the  "  thirties,"  when  "  dear  Leigh  Hunt 
was  just  round  the  corner."  Carlyle,  alas  ! 
would  not  to-day  write  of  this  dull  little 
street  submerged  in  a  part  of  Chelsea  as  now 
in  any  wise  lovely  :  "  We  lie  safe  at  a  bend 
of  the  river,  away  from  all  the  great  roads, 
have  an  air  and  quiet  hardly  inferior  to 
Craigenputtock,  an  outlook  from  the  back 
windows  into  mere  leafy  regions,  with  here 
and  there  a  red  high-peaked  old  roof  looking 
109 


The  Country  of  Carlyle 

through  ;  and  we  see  nothing  of  London 
except  by  day  the  summits  of  St.  Paul's 
Cathedral  and  Westminster  Abbey,  and 
by  night  the  gleam  of  the  great  Babylon 
affronting  the  peaceful  skies." 

"  An  air  and  quiet  hardly  inferior  to 
Craigenputtock "  .  .  .  to  that  of  remote 
Crag  of  the  Hawks  in  far-off  Nithsdale, 
where,  across  the  Water  of  Urr,  Galloway 
calls  to  the  hills  of  Dumfries  ...  no,  alas  ! 
not  now,  nor  for  a  long  time  past. 

Nor  is  it  possible  to  dwell  on  Carlyle's 
life  in  London  .  .  .  the  mere  "literary 
geographical "  part  of  it,  I  mean.  He 
knew  all  West  London,  and  much  of  every 
other  region  of  the  Metropolis,  with  a  know- 
ledge gained  through  many  years  of  con- 
tinual wayfarings  afoot  or  on  long  'bus -rides 
or  on  horseback.  Of  all  the  many  hints  and 
pictures  of  this  London  life  in  Froude's 
and  other  biographies  and  in  his  own 
Reminiscences  I  recall  none  so  delightful 
as  that  glimpse  afforded  in  one  of  Miss 
Martineau's  few  humour-touched  pages.  It 
is  where  she  relates  how  Carlyle,  dissatisfied 
with  the  house  in  Cheyne  Row — no  longer 
"  a  London  Eden,"  no  longer  as  quiet  as 
Craigenputtock — went  forth  one  morning 
on  a  black  horse,  with  three  maps  of  Great 
no 


The  Country  of  Carlyle 

Britain  and  two  of  the  World  in  his  pocket, 
to  explore  the  area  within  twenty  miles  of 
Chelsea  !  But,  as  we  all  know,  the  house 
in  Cheyne  Row  remained  the  Carlyle  home. 
The  first  break  was  when  Mrs.  Carlyle  died 
one  April  day  in  Hyde  Park,  when  driving 
in  her  carriage,  her  husband  then  in  Dum- 
fries ;  the  second,  fifteen  years  later,  when 
all  that  was  left  of  London's  greatest  man — 
who  had  refused  a  resting-place  in  West- 
minster Abbey  (one  remembers  his  scathing 
comment  to  Froude) — was  carried  north  to 
his  straggling  natal  village  of  Ecclefechan, 
to  be  buried  there  among  his  own  people. 

These  North-country  homes  of  Carlyle  .  .  . 
how  he  loved  them  !  Of  course,  Ecclefechan 
and  Craigenputtock  rank  first,  but  with 
each  of  the  others  there  are  many  associa- 
tions for  us,  and  for  him  there  were  many 
more.  If  in  some  regions  bleak,  if  in  certain 
districts  sombre  and  for  the  greater  part  of 
the  year  repellent,  the  countryside  as  a 
whole  is  pleasant,  is  often  winsome,  and  has 
sometimes  a  quiet  beauty  which  is  an 
excelling  grace.  It  is  far  more  diversified, 
more  fertile,  more  human  and  kindly  than 
Froude  painted  it  in  his  famous  Life.  In 
a  hundred  passages  in  his  books  and  letters 
Carlyle  himself  depicts  it  in  part  and  whole 
in 


The  Country  of  Carlyle 

with  all  the  sincerity  of  deep-ingrained  love. 
Even  in  the  days  of  his  wooing  Jane  Welsh, 
when  he  was  impatient  to  be  elsewhere  in 
the  great  world,  "  to  make  his  cast  in  the 
troubled  waters  of  earthly  fortune,"  he 
could  write  to  her,  and  as  truly  as  sincerely, 
thus  [in  an  invitation  to  her  to  visit  his 
parents  and  himself  at  Hoddam  Hill  farm  .  .  . 
Repentance  Hill,  as  it  is  commonly  called]  : 
"  I  will  show  you  Kirkconnell  churchyard 
and  Fair  Helen's  grave.  I  will  take  you  to 
the  top  of  Burnswark,  and  wander  with  you 
up  and  down  the  woods  and  lanes  and  moors. 
Earth,  sea,  and  air  are  open  to  us  here  as 
well  as  anywhere.  The  Water  of  Milk  was 
flowing  through  its  simple  valley  as  early  as 
the  brook  Siloa,  and  poor  Repentance  Hill 
is  as  old  as  Caucasus  itself.  There  is  a 
majesty  and  mystery  in  Nature,  take  her 
as  you  will.  The  essence  of  all  poetry  comes 
breathing  to  a  mind  that  feels  every  province 
of  her  Empire." 

All  these  farm -homes  lie  near  each  other — 
Mainhill  and  Scotsbrig  and  Hoddam  and 
pleasant  Templand — all  save  Craigenputtock 
in  Nithsdale,  just  across  the  Galloway 
border.  There  can  be  few  pleasanter  centres 
for  the  rambling  "  literary  geographer " 
than  Ecclefechan  itself,  unattractive  and 
112 


The  Country  of  Carlyle 

now  "  stranded "  village  though  it  be. 
The  pleasant  streamways  and  wandering 
glens  up  the  Kirtle  Water  and  shadowy 
Mein  are  full  of  charm,  and  are  within  easy 
reach  ;  so  are  the  woods  of  Brownmoor  and 
Woodcockair  ;  beautiful  Hoddam  Castle  and 
ruined  Bonshaw  are  but  a  pleasant  walk. 
The  walk  to  Mainhill  itself  is  in  all  ways 
delightful ;  that  up  the  vale  of  Kirtle, 
from  Kirkconnell  to  Springkill  by  way  of 
Kir kpatrick -Fleming,  is  lovely  enough  to 
repay  any  wayfarer,  apart  from  any  associa- 
tion with  Carlyle  or  with  the  moving  old 
ballads  of  the  Border  Country  or  the  wild 
and  romantic  history  of  the  Marshes.  From 
Criffel  in  the  south  to  Sanquhar  in  the  north, 
from  Scotsbrig  in  the  east  to  Craigenputtock 
in  the  west,  there  is  almost  every  variety  of 
lowland  beauty  and  charm  to  be  found. 
The  wayfarer  need  not  even  go  far  from 
Ecclefechan.  Let  him  cross  the  Meinfoot 
Bridge  and  go  along  the  beautiful  beech- 
shaded  Annan  road,  and  recall  "  the  kind 
beech -rows  of  Entepfuhl."  One  may  know 
loveliness  and  peace  here,  if  not  in  straggling, 
curious,  and  now  "  disjaskit  "  Entepfuhl- 
Ecclefechan  itself,  where  there  is  little  for 
the  stranger  to  see  except  the  Arch  House, 
where  Carlyle  was  born  and  where  Herr 
iv  113  H 


The  Country  of  Carlyle 

Diogenes  Teufelsdrockh  saw  the  light,  hard 
by  "  the  gushing  Kuhbach,"  as  the  pleasant 
Water  of  Mem  was  renamed  in  Sartor. 
Alas  !  Sartor  or  aught  else  of  Carlyle  is  little 
read  in  Ecclefechan  or  Annandale  itself. 
A  great  name,  a  famous  tradition  survive  ; 
but  in  the  whole  Anglo-Saxon  world  there 
are  probably  few  places  where  "  the  Sage  " 
is  less  read,  less  veritably  known.  Even  in 
the  so-called  "  Resartus  Reading  Room  " 
there  are  (or  were)  no  copies  of  Carlyle's 
books.  So,  another  reason  for  not  lingering 
in  Ecclefechan,  but  to  fare  abroad  through  a 
country  in  itself  fair  and  nobly  planned,  and 
often  quietly  beautiful,  sacred  for  many 
associations  of  history  and  religion  and 
romance,  and  for  ever  dear  to  all  who  love 
the  great  heart  and  reverence  the  powerful 
genius  of  Thomas  Carlyle.  "  Whatever  else 
they  did,  the  old  Northmen,"  he  said  once 
to  a  friend,  "  their  swords  did  not  smite  the 
air."  And  he,  this  Viking  of  Anglo-Saxon 
writers,  though  he  lies  at  rest  among  the 
dust  of  his  own  kith  and  kin  in  remote 
Annandale,  still  wields  a  mighty  sword  that 
does  not  idly  smite  air.  So,  here  in  his 
own  Northland  .  .  .  Ave  atque  Vale  ! 


114 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  GEORGE  ELIOT 

ONE  day  last  spring,  when  I  was  travelling 
in  Touraine,  a  literary  gentleman  from 
Rennes  (as  I  discovered  later)  entered  the 
compartment  of  which  I  was  the  sole 
occupant.  A  few  casual  words  led  to  the 
offer  on  my  part  of  one  or  two  new  issues 
of  Parisian  literary  magazines  which  had 
reached  me  at  breakfast  ;  and  that  ac- 
cepted offer  led  in  turn  to  a  chat  about 
certain  books  and  writers  with  which  and 
whom  more  than  one  of  the  magazine 
articles  were  vehemently  concerned. 

After  a  time  my  companion  politely 
turned  the  conversation  to  the  subject  of 
contemporary  English  poetry,  of  which  he 
showed  a  refreshingly  complacent  ignorance, 
apart  from  his  acquaintance  with  Shelley 
and  Mr.  Swinburne  through  the  free  if  sym- 
pathetic renderings  of  M.  Rabbe  and  M. 
Mourey.  Of  "living"  poets  he  thought 
"  Keat  "  was  the  nearest  in  approach  to 
the  excellence  of  Verlaine :  but  "  there 
was  also  beauty  .  .  .  yes,  the  unmistakable 


The  Country  of  George  Eliot 

touch  in  M.  Wilde  and  in  the  fine  Paterson, 
whose  death  so  young  was  a  scandal  to  the 
gross  materialism  of  the  London  bourgeoisie" 
Whether  Paterson  preceded  or  succeeded 
"  Keat  "  I  do  not  know :  his  name  and 
fame,  with  his  unmerited  sufferings  and 
shameful  Britannic  neglect,  are  alike  un- 
known to  me.  I  have  an  idea  that  my 
friend  had  heard  of  Chatterton,  whose 
name  by  a  mysterious  Gallic  alchemy  had 
known  a  resurrection  in  France  as  Paterson. 
I  am  sorry  to  confess,  however,  that  I  had 
not  the  moral  courage  to  admit,  then  and 
there,  that  I  was  a  degree  lower  even  than 
the  average  Britannic  bourgeois,  in  so  far 
as  I  knew  nothing  either  of  the  name  or 
fate  of  a  bard  worthy  to  be  ranked  with 
"  Keat." 

Naturally,  therefore,  when  my  Rennes 
friend  alluded  to  his  admiration  for  the 
"  Georges  Sand  of  England,"  and  how 
"  George  Eliot  "  had  also  something  of  the 
quality  of  Balzac,  I  feared  that  a  Parisian 
sparrow  had  but  uttered  a  name  on  the 
housetops  of  Rennes.  But  no,  my  friend 
spoke  of  Adam  Bede  and  Mid-le-Marche, 
of  Felix  'Oltt  and  Le  Moulin  du  Floss,  of 
Seelas  Marner  and  Romola,  as  if  intimate 
with  each  of  these  masterpieces.  He  did 
116 


The  Country  of  George  Eliot 

really  know  something  of  the  romances 
of  the  "  Grand  Magicien  Sir  Scott,"  and 
had  read  several  tales  of  Dickens  in  their 
French  translation,  and  a  version  of 
Thackeray's  Vanity  Fair  ;  and  this  (with 
his  having  wept  over  a  prose  rendering 
of  In  Memoriam),  along  with  his  more 
erudite  acquaintance  with  "  Keat "  and 
Paterson,  had  apparently  been  his  justifica- 
tion (alas  !  unsuccessful)  in  a  recent  applica- 
tion for  a  Foreign  Literature  lectureship  at 
Rennes  University. 

With  some  of  his  views  I  agreed,  from 
others  I  disagreed.  Then  I  discovered 
that  all  these  matured  results  of  meditation 
had  been  culled  from  M.  Brunettere's 
interesting  study  of  the  famous  English 
novelist,  and  that  the  only  Rennesesque 
addition  was  in  the  appellation  of  "  the 
Georges  Sand  of  England,"  a  crudity  for 
which  M.  Brunetiere  would  not  have  thanked 
his  Breton  colleague.  Finally,  1  asked 
my  companion  who  were  his  favourite 
personages  in  these  fine  romances  of 
"  Madame  Eliot,"  and  to  my  astonishment 
he  specified  Mrs.  Poyser,  la  Tullivere 
(Maggie),  and  .  .  .  George  Henry  Lewes  ! 

Then,  to  finish  my  bewilderment,  he 
gave  me  two  Poyserisms  in  English — one 
117 


The  Country  of  George  Eliot 

of  which  was  (and  is)  as  mysterious  arid 
untraceable  as  the  premature  masterpiece  and 
early  death  of  Paterson ;  while  the  second  I 
at  last  disengaged  from  the  maze  of  a  weird 
originality  of  pronunication,  having  by  a 
flash  of  insight  or  exacerbated  memory 
discovered  "  Craig  "  (the  gardener  at  Don- 
nithorne  Chase,  in  Adam  Bede)  from 
"  Lecraygue  " — and  so  arrived  at  "  he's  welly 
like  a  cock  as  thinks  the  sun's  rose  o' 
purpose  to  hear  him  crow." 

This  witticism,  in  an  Anglo -Franco  dia- 
lect, was  evidently  a  source  of  pure  happiness 
to  my  friend.  "Ah,  the  English  humour  !  " 
he  exclaimed,  chuckling. 

All  this  comes  back  to  me  when  I  take 
up  my  pen  to  write  on  the  country  of 
George  Eliot.  And  much  else  .  .  .  from 
Charles  Reade's  dictum  that  Adam  Bede 
is  "  the  finest  thing  since  Shakespeare," 
to  Mr.  Parkinson's,  who  says  it  "  pulsates 
from  opening  to  finish."  For  (the  con- 
fession must  be  made)  even  the  Rennes 
enthusiast  as  to  Mid-le-Marche  and  Felix 
""Oltt  would  in  point  of  enthusiasm  be 
worthier  to  write  this  article.  We  have 
all  our  limitations  ;  and  with  genuine 
regret  (for  I  find  myself  in  an  embarrassing 
isolation  from  the  collective  opinion  of 
118 


The  Country  of  George  Eliot 

the  wise  and  good)  I  have  to  admit  my 
inability  to  become  enthusiastic  over  the 
actual  country  of  George  Eliot  in  so  far  as 
I  know  it  apart  from  its  literary  glamour 
and  associations.  Nor,  apart  from  the 
dairy -passages  and  a  few  delightful  pages 
in  the  earlier  novels,  am  I  "transported," 
as  one  critic  has  it,  by  the  George  Eliot 
country  of  the  imagination.  Of  course, 
this  is  not  an  absolute  statement.  I  have 
read  (and  can  now  read)  with  keen  pleasure 
much  of  the  descriptive  parts  of  Adam 
Bede  and  The  Mill  on  the  Floss,  as,  in 
another  respect,  I  could  at  any  time  re-read 
with  pleasure  most  of  Silas  Marner,  and 
the  whole  of  Mr.  GilfiVs  Love  Story.  There 
are  pages  in  Middlemarch  which  must 
surely  appeal  to  every  mind  and  every 
heart.  But  I  can't  honestly  say  much 
more  ;  and,  as  Mark  Twain  suggests,  it's 
better  if  one  is  a  fool  to  say  so  and  be  done 
with  it,  than  to  leave  the  remark  to  others 
to  make.  Nothing  would  tempt  me  to 
read  Daniel  Deronda  again,  and,  like  a 
thundercloud  above  the  vistas  of  my  past, 
looms  the  memory  of  the  weary  travail 
through  Romola  /  As  for  Theophrastus 
Such  .  .  .  well,  if  repeated  perusal  of  it 
were  introduced  as  a  punishment  in  a 
119 


The  Country  of  George  Eliot 

revised  penal  code,  crime  among  the  cultured 
would  certainly  decrease. 

After  all,  the  point  of  divergence  is  not 
one  to  interest  most  people.  Abstract 
points  in  the  eternal  controversy  as  to 
what  is  and  what  is  not  art  are  like  the 
diet  of  John  the  Baptist  in  the  wilderness — 
delectable,  till  introduced  to  the  domestic 
table.  "  Remove  your  locust,  your  wild 
and  sugary  honey,  and  yourself,  to  the 
wilderness,"  is  the  reception  to  be  expected  ! 

Fortunately,  critic  and  readers,  and  all 
who  care  in  any  degree  for  the  genius,  the 
humour,  the  pathos,  and  the  charm  of 
George  Eliot,  can  get  over  into  her  country 
by  one  bridge  at  which  is  no  gate  where 
"  Art  "  levies  toll.  For  the  rest,  I  am 
ready  to  admit,  as  Mrs.  Poyser  remarked 
of  one  of  her  antipathies,  that  I  "  ought 
to  be  hatched  over  again  and  hatched 
different."  As  for  taking  the  part  of  that 
wilfully  perverse  creature,  the  critic  with  a 
theory,  or  his  kind,  I  am  of  the  persuasion 
of  Mr.  Gedge,  the  landlord  of  the  Royal 
Oak  in  George  Eliot's  most  popular  tale, 
"  Ay,  sir,  I've  said  it  often,  and  I'll  say 
it  again,  they're  a  poor  lot  i'  this  parish — 
a  poor  lot,  sir  ;  big  and  little  " — and  Mr. 
Gedge,  it  will  be  remembered,  hardened  in 
120 


The  Country  of  George  Eliot 

his  opinion  with  the  change  and  chance  of 
the  unsteady  planets,  for  when,  in  a  dim 
hope  of  finding  humanity  worthy  of  his 
regard,  he  moved  from  Shepperton  to  the 
Saracen's  Head  in  a  neighbouring  market 
town,  he  ceased  not  in  iterating  "  A  poor 
lot,  sir,  big  and  little  ;  and  them  as 
comes  for  a  go  o'  gin  are  no  better  than 
them  as  comes  for  a  pint  o'  twopenny — a 
poor  lot." 

There  are  some  authors  in  connection 
with  whom  we  are  more  interested  to  know 
where  they  dreamed  and  thought  and  wrote 
than  to  learn  the  geography  of  their 
imaginative  inhabitings  and  excursions.  It 
is  not  so  with  Balzac  or  Zola,  for  example. 
To  know  where  the  author  of  the  Comedie 
Humaine  plied  his  unwearying  pen,  or 
where  the  architect  of  the  House  of  Rougon 
Maquart  sedulously  cemented,  day  by  day, 
an  allotted  section  of  his  patient  edifice, 
is  a  matter  of  almost  no  sentimental 
interest.  It  is  otherwise  in  the  instances 
of,  say,  Charlotte  Bronte,  Sir  Walter  Scott, 
George  Eliot.  One  might  find  it  rather 
difficult  to  demonstrate  the  point  positively, 
or  to  explain  the  why  and  wherefore  ; 
but  probably  most  of  my  readers  will 
concur  with  me  in  the  conclusion. 
121 


The  Country  of  George  Eliot 

In  the  instance  of  George  Eliot  the 
personal  interest  is  exceptionally  dominant. 
Possibly  this  is  because  her  personality, 
her  strenuous  life  in  the  things  of  the  mind 
and  the  spirit,  the  lamp  of  a  continual 
excellence,  win  us  more  to  the  homes 
wherein  she  herself  dreamed  and  thought 
and  worked  than  to  those  of  her  imaginary 
personages.  Perhaps,  again,  it  is  because 
she  suffered — "  travailed  in  the  spirit  "  as 
an  old  writer  has  it — throughout  her  life, 
and  that  every  domicile  has  its  memories 
of  things  endured  in  the  spirit  and  weighed 
with  sadness  in  the  mind.  Taking  it  in 
its  whole  course,  her  life  was  a  happy  one, 
in  so  far  as  it  is  possible  for  us  to  make  a 
general  estimate  of  what  constitutes  happi- 
ness ;  but  her  mind  continually  played 
the  austere  puritan  to  the  very  feminine 
nature,  her  intellect  habitually  stood  by, 
throwing  shadows  across  her  naturally 
blithe  and  ardent  temperament. 

Mr.  Cross  has  given  us  a  pleasant  sketch 
of  the  cottage  home  in  Warwickshire,  Griff 
House,  on  the  Arbury  estate,  near  the 
village  of  Chilvers  Coton  and  the  town  of 
Nuneaton,  where  Mary  Ann  Evans,  the 
daughter  of  a  Staffordshire  man  who  had 
begun  the  working  years  of  life  as  a  car- 
122 


The  Country  of  George  Eliot 

penter  and  risen  to  be  the  land-agent  of  a 
wealthy  Warwickshire  county  family,  lived 
till  she  was  twenty -one.  She  was  not, 
however,  as  sometimes  stated,  born  here  : 
but  at  South  Farm,  Arbury,  close  by — 
though  Mr.  Evans  moved  to  Griff  House 
while  his  little  girl  was  still  a  baby. 
Here,  in  this  quiet  and  rural  district  of 
the  somewhat  grimy  coal  region  of  War- 
wickshire, amid  scenes  and  scenery  which 
indelibly  impressed  themselves  upon  her 
mind,  to  be  afterwards  reproduced  with  a 
vivid  and  loving  fidelity,  Miss  Evans  grew 
to  womanhood.  Life,  however,  had  become 
somewhat  circumscribed  and  lacking  in 
mental  stimulus,  and  it  was  with  pleasure 
she  went  with  her  father  in  the  spring  of 
1841 — shortly  after  she  had  come  of  age — 
to  a  semi-rural  house  in  Foleshill  Road, 
outside  Coventry.  The  event  was  of  signal 
moment  in  her  life,  for  it  was  now  she 
formed  a  delightful  acquaintanceship  with 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Charles  Bray  of  Rosehill, 
and  Mrs.  Bray's  sister,  Miss  Sara  Hennell — 
an  acquaintanceship  which  was  not  only 
the  chief  charm  and  stimulus  of  her  early 
years  of  womanhood,  but  deepened  into  a 
friendship  of  the  utmost  value  and  happiness, 
which  lasted  nearly  forty  years.  Rosehill 
123  " 


The  Country  of  George  Eliot 

House  and  garden  may  still  be  seen  in  the 
outskirts  of  Coventry  :  the  "  other  house," 
as  she  calls  it,  that  from  1841  to  1849  was 
her  "earthly  paradise."  It  was  here, 
apparently,  that  Mary  Ann  became 
"  Marian  "  ;  and  here  that  the  eager  in- 
tellectual life  first  quickened  in  production, 
and  that  of  a  kind  remarkable  for  a  young 
woman  in  the  England  of  the  'forties — a 
translation  of  Strauss's  Leben  Jesu,  a  task 
followed  by  English  renderings  of  philoso- 
phico -religious  writings  by  Spinoza  and 
Feuerbach.  It  was  a  happy  and  fruitful 
time  that  came  to  a  vital  change  with 
the  death  of  Mr.  Evans  in  1849.  Though 
the  Foleshill  Road  home  was  broken  up, 
and  Marian  Evans  went  abroad  to  break 
the  spell  of  sorrow  and  prolonged  associa- 
tion, she  returned  to  the  neighbourhood 
of  Coventry  and  to  her  beloved  Warwick- 
shire lanes  and  canals  and  flat,  damp  lands, 
and  stayed  with  her  friends  the  Brays 
till,  at  the  age  of  thirty -two,  she  made  her 
first  definite  change  in  life,  and  removed 
to  London.  The  occasion  was  the  assistant - 
editorship  of  the  Westminster  Review,  but  it 
was  the  beginning  of  the  long  and  brilliant 
career  in  literature  whereby  the  obscure 
Warwickshire  Marian  Evans  became  the 
124 


The  Country  of  George  Eliot 

world-famous  "  George  Eliot."  It  will  be 
easy  for  Londoners  who  wish  to  see  the 
early  London  home  of  this  celebrated 
novelist,  to  do  so  ;  for  it  is  no  farther  away 
than  Richmond.  Here,  in  rooms  at  No.  8 
Park  Street  (close  to  the  beautiful  Park 
"  George  Eliot  "  so  often  frequented  and 
so  much  loved,  reminiscent  to  her  as  it  was 
of  Arbury  Park,  and  of  parts  of  the  wooded 
districts  of  Warwickshire),  were  written, 
during  the  years  of  1855-8,  not  only  The 
Sad  Fortunes  of  the  Rev.  Amos  Barton, 
Mr.  Gilfirs  Love  Story,  and  Janet's  Re- 
pentance— collectively  republished  as  Scenes 
of  Clerical  Life — but  also  the  most  enduring 
in  popularity  of  all  the  great  writer's 
books,  Adam  Bede. 

In  1859  George  Henry  Lewes  and  George 
Eliot  (for  Marian  Evans  was  now  not  only 
"  George  Eliot,"  but  also  had  wedded  her 
life  to  that  of  the  brilliant  and  versatile  man 
of  letters  to  whom  personally  she  owed  so 
much,  but  also  through  whose  influence  her 
art  was  so  often  to  know  the  blight  of  an 
essentially  uncreative  and  unimaginative 
mind)  moved  to  Wandsworth,  where,  at  a 
house  called  Holly  Lodge,  in  Wimbledon 
Park  Road,  they  lived  from  February  1858 
till  March  1860,  and  where  perhaps  the 
125 


The  Country  of  George  Eliot 

most  beautiful  of  all  George  Eliot's  books 
was  written,  The  Mill  on  the  Floss.  The 
next  change  was  to  the  well-known  home 
at  The  Priory,  North  Bank,  St.  John's 
Wood,  where  from  November  1863  till 
after  the  death  of  G.  H.  Lewes  and  till 
shortly  before  her  marriage  early  in  1880 
with  Mr.  J.  W.  Cross,  George  Eliot  had  her 
London  residence.  Here  she  wrote  some 
of  her  most  discussed  books — Felix  Holt, 
Middlemarch,  and  that  brave  and  fine  effort 
in  dramatic  poetry  of  one  who  was  neither  a 
dramatist  nor  a  poet,  The  Spanish  Gypsy. 

Far  and  away  the  best  portrait  of  the 
famous  novelist  in  her  prime  is  that  made 
in  1865  by  Sir  Frederick  Burton,  now 
in  the  National  Portrait  Gallery  ;  and 
friends  who  knew  her  well  during  her  last 
years  at  The  Priory  have  assured  me  that 
the  likeness  was  as  admirable  then  as  when 
it  was  made.  From  1876  till  the  year  of  her 
death  George  Eliot  had  also  a  delightful 
summer  home  near  Godalming,  in  Surrey — 
The  Heights,  Witley  ;  and  here  she  passed 
some  of  her  happiest  days  in  late  life,  though 
even  here  not  without  a  longing  for  the  less 
interesting  or  beautiful,  but  more  intimate, 
scenery  of  "her  own  country,"  Warwick- 
shire, North  Stafford,  and  the  southlands 
126 


The  Country  of  George  Eliot 

of  Derby.  It  was  neither  in  her  own  land, 
nor  at  The  Heights,  nor  The  Priory  that, 
on  December  22,  1880,  the  great  writer 
died,  but  at  No.  4  Cheyne  Walk,  Chelsea, 
a  few  doors  from  where  Rossetti  still 
dreamed  and  wrote  and  painted,  a  few 
minutes'  walk  from  where  Carlyle  still 
worked  and  brooded. 

The  country  of  George  Eliot  should,  in  a 
sense,  be  called  the  Four  Counties.  Of 
these,  Warwickshire  and  North  Staffordshire 
bulk  the  largest,  in  the  map  of  our  Imagina- 
tive Geography.  Derbyshire  leans  against 
them  from  the  north  ;  to  the  east  are  the 
winds  and  floods  of  Lincolnshire.  Con- 
veniently this  country  may  be  said  to 
extend  from  Gainsborough — that  old  town 
on  the  Trent  so  familiar  to  readers  of 
The  Mill  on  the  Floss  as  St.  Oggs — to 
Coventry  and  Nuneaton.  In  all  her  years 
spent  in  or  near  London  (with  her  brief 
residings  abroad),  George  Eliot  was  never 
in  mind  and  spirit  long  away  from  this 
.country  of  her  early  life,  love,  and  imagina- 
tive and  sympathetic  intimacy.  She  lived 
a  dual  mental  life  :  intellectually  with  the 
remote  and  austere  minds  of  the  past  ; 
reminiscently  and  recreatively  with  the 
people,  episodes,  and  scenery  of  her  beloved 
127 


The  Country  of  George  Eliot 

"  Shepperton  "  (Chilvers  Colon)  and  "  Hay- 
slope  "  (Ellaston),  her  ever  affectionately 
regarded  "  Snowfield  "  (Wirks worth), 
"Milby"  (Nuneaton),  and  "St.  Oggs" 
(Gainsborough) — for  the  most  part  now  dull 
and  uninteresting  tracts  and  localities  of 
the  shires  of  Stafford  and  Warwick  and 
Lincoln,  transferred  henceforth  by  her 
genius  to  the  more  vivid  and  fascinating 
"  Midlands  map "  of  the  Atlas  of  the 
Countries  of  the  Imagination.  It  is  rarely 
we  come  upon  any  revelation  of  "  Mrs. 
Lewes  "  or  "  Mrs.  Cross  "  in  the  domestic 
capacity  of  lady  of  the  household — as  when 
she  writes  to  her  friend  Mrs.  Congreve, 
shortly  after  settlement  at  The  Priory  in 
St.  John's  Wood,  that  she  is  occupied  with 
no  imaginative  work,  but  is  renewing  "  a 
mind  made  up  of  old  carpets  fitted  in  new 
places,  and  new  carpets  suffering  from 
accidents  ;  chairs,  tables,  and  pieces,  muslin 
curtains,  and  down-draughts  in  cold  places  " 
— and  this  although,  "  before  we  began  to 
move,  I  was  swimming  in  Comte  and 
Euripides  and  Latin  Christianity." 

Whatever  may  have  been   the   drift   of 

opinion  in  the  middle  epoch  of  the  nineteenth 

century,  it  is  probably  the  all  but  general 

opinion   to-day   that   the   George   Eliot   of 

128 


The  Country  of  George  Eliot 

literature  is  the  George  Eliot  who  is 
"swimming"  in  memories  of  the  people 
and  episodes  and  places  known  so  in- 
timately in  her  early  life  and  ever  recalled 
so  vividly,  and  not  the  George  Eliot  who 
"swam"  with  "  Comte  and  Euripides  and 
Latin  Christianity,"  or  the  abstract  thinkers 
and  philosophies  for  which  the  phrase  may 
stand  as  a  collective  analogue. 

Frankly,  of  what  worth  are  all  the  stately 
but  un vivified  pages  of  Romola,  or  the 
long  and  wearying  digressions  in  Daniel 
Deronda,  or  the  meandering  and  inconclusive 
speculations  of  Theophrastus  Such,  in  com- 
parison with  the  rich  human  interest  and 
loving  and  exquisite  familiarity  of  books 
of  a  lived  actuality  such  as  Adam  Bede  and 
Silas  Marner  and  The  Mill  on  the  Floss  ? 
Do  we  not  recall  the  dairies  of  Donnithorne 
Hall  Farm  (and  their  presiding  genius, 
Mrs.  Poyser — in  the  roll-call  of  George 
Eliot's  personages  as  outstanding  a  figure 
as  Mr.  Micawber  or  Sam  Weller  in  the 
roll-call  of  Dickens's  personages,  as  Baillie 
Nicol  Jar  vie  in  that  of  Scott's,  or  Becky 
Sharp  in  that  of  Thackeray's,  or  Handy 
Andy  in  that  of  Lover's)  with  far  keener 
pleasure,  alike  in  imaginative  realisation 
and  in  the  sense  of  perfected  and  satisfying 

iv  129  I 


The  Country  of  George  Eliot 

art,  than  even  the  keenest  pages  of  what 
in  its  day  was  considered  the  masterly 
philosophic  thought  of  Middlemarch,  the 
perturbing  sociological  questionings  in  Felix 
Holt,  or  the  dignified  intellectual  display 
of  erudition  in  Daniel  Deronda  and  Romola  ? 
Nor  do  I  think  that  this  change  in  stand- 
point is  due  solely  to  that  contemporary 
intellectual  deterioration  in  ideals  and 
mental  powers  of  which  we  hear  so  much. 
In  some  measure,  at  least,  I  take  it,  it  is 
due  to  an  ever  developing  sense  of  the  true 
scope  and  true  beauty  and  true  limitations 
of  literature,  not  as  a  pastime  adaptable 
to  every  range  of  feebleness  and  capacity, 
but  as  an  art,  an  art  requiring  as  scrupulous 
observance  on  the  part  of  the  jealous  reader 
as  on  that  of  the  ambitious  writer.  Let 
us  remember  our  friend  Mr.  Gedge,  the 
landlord,  and  not  get  into  the  habit  of 
dismissing  our  contemporaries  as  "a  poor 
lot,  sir,  big  and  little — a  poor  lot  !  " 

If  one  were  to  take  a  census  as  to  the 
literary  capital  of  "  George  Eliot's  Country," 
it  would  probably  result  in  the  election 
either  of  Chilvers  Coton,  near  Nuneaton 
(the  "  Shepperton "  of  the  early  stories, 
and  the  novelist's  home  till  she  was  of 
age),  or,  and  the  more  likely,  of  Ellaston, 
130 


The  Country  of  George  Eliot 

the  "  Hayslope "  of  Adam  Bede.  Many 
years  ago  the  present  writer  edited  a 
popular  periodical  for  young  readers  ;  and 
on  one  occasion,  in  the  literary  page,  the 
question  was  editorially  proclaimed  :  "  Who 
are  the  two  most  famous  persons  in  George 
Eliot's  novels,  and  what  are  the  two  best 
known  localities  ?  "  The  answers  were  (for 
competitions  of  the  kind)  exceptionally 
personal,  and  by  far  the  greater  number 
declared,  on  the  first  count,  for  Mrs.  Poyser 
and  Maggie  Tulliver  (the  latter  run  close 
by  poor  Hetty,  by  Dinah  Morris,  and  by 
Adam  Bede)  ;  and,  on  the  second,  for 
Donnithorne  Hall  Farm  (Hayslope),  and 
"  Red  Deeps,"  where  Maggie  Tulliver  used 
to  meet  her  lover  Philip  Wakem  (though 
this  choice  was  perhaps  due  in  considerable 
part  to  a  then  recent  article  in  the  same 
periodical  on  the  Griff  Hollow  of  fact  and 
fiction,  apropos  of  Maggie's  pathetic  story). 

And  probably  this  verdict  would  be 
returned  from  any  like  consensus  to-day. 
It  is  difficult  to  imagine  any  heroine  in 
George  Eliot's  novels  and  tales  usurping 
the  place  of  Maggie  Tulliver  :  it  is  im- 
possible to  think  of  Mrs.  Poyser  being 
dethroned  from  her  pre-eminence. 

One    great    charm    of    George    Eliot's 


The  Country  of  George  Eliot 

Country  is  that  it  is  real  country,  loved  and 
understood  for  itself  as  well  as  being  the 
background  of  the  humours  and  sorrows  and 
joys  of  human  life,  loved  for  its  own  intimate 
charm  as  well  for  its  real  and  imaginary 
dramatic  associations.  There  is  nothing  of 
more  winsome  charm  in  George  Eliot's 
writings  than  her  description  of  this  very 
real  and  intimate  country  of  her  love  and 
knowledge.  True,  these  are  remembered 
more  as  one  remembers  last  spring  in  Devon, 
or  summer  in  Surrey,  or  autumn  in  Wales  or 
the  Highlands  :  as  the  sum  of  many  lovely 
and  delightful  things,  days,  and  hours. 
There  are  few  descriptive  passages  for 
memory  to  isolate  and  recall,  for  George 
Eliot  had  little  preoccupation  with  words 
for  the  sake  of  their  own  beauty — an  artistic 
lack  more  obvious,  naturally,  in  her  verse 
than  in  her  prose.*  But  (perhaps  in  The 

*  Since  this  article  was  written  I  have  seen  the 
late  Sir  Leslie  Stephen's  more  recently  published 
admirable  monograph  on  George  Eliot,  and  cannot 
refrain  from  a  corroborative  quotation  on  this  point 
of  the  artistic  sense  of  the  value  of  words.  Sir 
Leslie  Stephen  had  too  finely  trained  a  taste  to  accept 
the  high  claim  so  often  made  for  George  Eliot  as  a 
poet.  She  lacked,  he  says,  "  that  exquisite  sense 
for  the  value  of  words  which  may  transmute  even 
common  thought  into  poetry.  Even  her  prose, 
132 


The  Country  of  George  Eliot 

Mill  on  the  Floss  especially)  it  would  be  easy 
to  find  many  winsome  collocations,  de- 
lightful in  themselves  apart  from  the 
interest  or  charm  of  context.  Turn  to  The 
Mill,  and  chance  perhaps  upon : 

"  The  rush  of  the  water,  and  the  booming 
of  the  mill,  bring  a  dreamy  deafness,  which 
seems  to  heighten  the  peacefulness  of  the 
scene.  They  are  like  a  great  curtain  of  sound, 
shutting  one  out  from  the  world  beyond." 

Or  upon  : 

"  Maggie  could  sit  in  a  grassy  hollow 
under  the  shadow  of  a  branching  ash,  stoop- 
ing aslant  from  the  steep  above  her,  and 
listen  to  the  hum  of  insects,  like  tiniest  bells 
on  the  garment  of  Silence,  or  see  the  sunlight 
piercing  the  distant  boughs,  as  if  to  chase 
and  drive  home  the  truant  heavenly  blue 
of  the  wild  hyacinths." 

indeed,  though  often  admirable,  sometimes  be- 
comes heavy,  and  gives  the  impression  that, 
instead  of  finding  the  right  word,  she  is  accumulat- 
ing more  or  less  complicated  approximations." 
[In  case  of  any  confusion  of  issues,  it  may  be 
added  that  no  critic  has  ever  more  finely  and 
sanely  done  justice  to  and  interpreted  all  that 
made  the  genius,  "  all  the  mental,  moral,  and 
spiritual  energy  that  went  to  make  up  the  wonder- 
ful spirit  whom  we  know  as  George  Eliot."] 

133 


The  Country  of  George  Eliot 

But  in  all  the  George  Eliot  Country  of  fact 
there  is  no  locality  so  fascinating  as  that 
immortalised  (in  Adam  Bede)  as  Hay  slope 
and  its  neighbourhood.  The  seeker  will 
easily  find  it,  under  its  actual  name  of 
Ellaston,  whether  in  a  map  or  if  he  be  afoot 
or  acycle  in  the  Midlands  on  a  George 
Eliot  pilgrimage,  by  looking  for  the  curving 
stream  of  the  Dove  where  it  divides  Loam- 
shire  and  Stonyshire  (as  the  novelist  calls 
Staffordshire  and  Derbyshire),  near  Norbury 
railway  station.  Our  one  quotation  from 
Adam  Bede  (whence  one  could  delve  so  many 
beautiful  passages  and  pages)  must  be  of  this 
Hayslope  vicinage : 

"...  From  his  station  near  the  Green 
he  had  before  him  in  one  view  nearly  all  the 
other  typical  features  of  this  pleasant  land. 
High  up  against  the  horizon  were  the  huge 
conical  hills,  like  giant  mounds  intended  to 
fortify  this  region  of  corn  and  grass  against 
the  keen  and  hungry  winds  of  the  north  ; 
not  distant  enough  to  be  clothed  in  purple 
mystery,  but  with  sombre  greenish  sides 
visibly  specked  with  sheep,  whose  motion 
was  only  revealed  by  memory,  not  detected 
by  sight ;  wooed  from  day  to  day  by  the 
changing  hours,  but  responding  by  no 
134 


The  Country  of  George  Eliot 

change  in  themselves — left  for  ever  grim 
and  sullen  after  the  flush  of  morning,  the 
winged  gleams  of  the  April  noonday,  the 
parting  crimson  glory  of  the  ripening 
summer  sun.  And  directly  below  him  the 
eye  rested  on  a  more  advanced  line  of  hang- 
ing woods,  divided  by  bright  patches  of 
pasture  or  furrowed  crops,  and  not  yet 
deepened  into  the  uniform  leafy  curtains  of 
high  summer,  but  still  showing  the  warm 
tints  of  the  young  oak  and  the  tender  green 
of  the  ash  or  lime.  Then  came  the  valley, 
where  the  woods  grew  thicker,  as  if  they  had 
rolled  down  and  hurried  together  from  the 
patches  left  smooth  on  the  slope,  that  they 
might  take  the  better  care  of  the  tall 
mansion  which  lifted  its  parapets  and  sent 
its  faint  blue  summer  smoke  among  them." 

Here  we  have  not  only  typical  English 
scenery  of  the  North  Midlands — with  heights 
and  uplands,  wood  and  valley,  the  oak  or 
beech  surrounded  manor-house  .  .  .  and 
beyond  it  the  hamlet  of  Hayslope  and  the 
grey  square  tower  of  the  old  church — but  are 
in  the  heart  of  the  country  of  George  Eliot. 
If,  to-day,  much  of  the  pastoral  quiet  of 
Hayslope,  much  of  the  green  loveliness  of 
the  regions  now  so  intimately  associated 
135 


The  Country  of  George  Eliot 

with  Adam  Bede  and  poor  Hetty  and  Mrs. 
Poyser,  with  Amos  Barton  and  Silas  Marner, 
with  Mr.  Gilfil  and  Maggie  Tulliver,  exist 
only  in  the  pages  of  a  great  writer,  and  seem 
dull  and  commonplace,  fretted  by  the  smoke 
of  mines  and  the  passage  of  coal-trains  and 
the  encroachment  of  the  plague  of  bricks 
and  stucco,  the  fault  does  not  lie  with 
George  Eliot.  We  have  the  land  as  it  is  : 
she  limned  for  us  the  country  as  it  was. 


136 


THACKERAY-LAND 

THE  lover  of  Thackeray  will  at  once  exclaim, 
and  with  some  justice,  "  The  literary 
geography  of  '  Thackeray  '  .  .  .  impos- 
sible !  "  "George  Eliot  was  easy  for  you," 
such  a  one  may  add — "you  had  only  to 
omit  the  Florence  of  Romola  and  restrict 
yourself  to  three  counties :  the  Bronte 
country  will  be  easy,  for  except  in  Villette 
you  will  not  need  to  cross  the  Channel,  nor 
even  to  linger  long  in  London  :  Dickens 
himself  was  easy,  for  the  ground  covered  by 
Nicholas  Nickleby  or  David  Copperfield  or 
Martin  Chuzzlewit  in  their  beyond-London 
wanderings  is  almost  as  familiar  as  the 
home -circuit  of  Mr.  Pickwick,  or  as  the 
metropolitan  background  of  Bleak  House  or 
Little  Dorrit — while  as  for  what  occurs  across 
the  water,  the  Tale  of  Two  Cities  is  soon 
overtaken.  Even  Walter  Scott  and  Steven- 
son, for  all  their  pen -wanderings  as  far 
overseas  as  Syria  and  Samoa,  could  by 
skilful  loops  be  lassoed  to  your  service. 
But  how  are  you  to  limn  the  literary 
137 


Thackeray -Land 

geography  of  Thackeray,  unless  you  at 
once  relinquish  any  attempt  to  go  beyond 
Bath  and  Exeter,  or  even  to  stray  from 
London  .  .  .  unless,  at  farthest,  to  those 
marine  suburbs  of  Vanity  Fair,  Brighton 
and  Boulogne  ?  " 

True,  so  far,  on  both  counts.  The  polar 
centre  of  Thackeray -land  is  that  Guest-room 
in  the  Reform  Club  in  Pall  Mall  where  the 
famous  portrait  by  Lawrence  still  cheers 
and  dignifies  the  lunching  novelist  of  to-day, 
still  benignly  consoles  the  harassed  scribe 
whose  monotonously  recurrent  nocturne  is 
in  three  movements — to  the  Reform  Club 
dinner,  thence  through  the  cigar-lit  valley 
of  dyspepsia,  then  to  the  leader-writer's 
room. 

The  Thackeray  an  home -county  is  London 
.  .  .  that  London  bounded  by  Holland 
Park  on  the  west,  by  St.  Paul's  on  the  east, 
by  Pimlico  on  the  south :  the  London 
whose  heart  is  Pall  Mall,  whose  chief  arteries 
are  Piccadilly  and  St.  James's  Street,  Regent 
Street,  and  all  that  mysterious  entity  ''the 
West  End  " — from  Jermyn  Street  to  the 
"  beyond  Gadira "  of  those  Metropolitan 
Pillars  of  Hercules,  Tyburn  Gate  and 
Knightsbridge.  Above  all,  Thackeray's 
London  consists  of  Belgravia  and  Mayfair 
138 


Thackeray -Land 

with  Piccadilly  as  Vanity  Fair  Avenue. 
If  ever  any  great  writer  was  a  Londoner  it 
was  Thackeray.  Not  Dr.  Johnson  returning 
to  the  Mitre  Tavern  after  those  Hebridean 
experiences  .  .  .  wherefrom,  after  too  much 
rain,  and  too  much  brose,  and  too  much 
Bos  well,  he  coined  or  set  his  seal  upon  the 
opprobrious  term  "  Scotch  "  to  the  after 
satisfaction  of  all  South-Britons  and  the 
resentment  of  all  Scots  ! — nor  Charles  Lamb 
warming  to  the  nocturnal  glow  of  the  Strand 
after  one  of  his  visits  to  the  Lakeland  of 
his  great  friends,  with  whose  genius  he 
sympathised,  but  not  with  their  taste  in 
exile — nor  Dickens,  when  at  Broadstairs 
the  sea  and  keen  air  lost  their  spell,  and  he 
would  have  bartered  both  with  joy  for 
the  dirt  and  noise  of  Fleet  Street — none 
of  these  was  more  truly  a  Londoner  than 
William  Makepeace  Thackeray,  born  in 
Calcutta,  a  student  at  Weimar,  a  newspaper 
correspondent  and  happy  married  man  in 
Paris,  a  great  novelist -in -the -making  at  a 
chateau  in  Picardy.  We  cannot  imagine 
Thackeray  country-wed,  as  was  Marian 
Evans  or  Charlotte  Bronte,  or  a  country- 
man like  Walter  Scott,  a  Transatlantic 
or  Samoan  exile  like  Stevenson,  a  country - 
dweller  like  Thomas  Hardy,  a  Surrey 
139 


Thackeray -Land 

recluse  like  George  Meredith.  One  is 
apt  to  think  of  Charles  Dickens  as  pre- 
eminently the  Londoner  among  modern 
writers.  But  Dickens  (as  he  said  once), 
for  all  that  he  was  as  dependent  on  London 
as  an  orphan -suckling  on  its  milk -bottle, 
lived  a  great  part  of  his  mature  life  in 
maritime  or  inland  Kent.  True,  when  he 
was  writing  Dombey  and  Son  at  Lausanne 
he  yearned  for  London,  not  only  with 
the  nostalgia  born  of  life -long  affection 
and  associations,  but  with  all  the  longings 
of  the  creative  artist  for  the  living  sources 
of  the  imagination.  It  was,  however,  the 
near  approach,  the  intimate  touch,  that 
Dickens  needed  :  not  to  work  and  sleep 
and  wake  in  an  urban  home,  nor  to  lunch 
regularly  at  the  Reform,  nor  to  dine  often 
at  the  Garrick,  nor  enjoy  or  undergo  the 
social  round.  But  though  Thackeray  spent 
some  early  years  in  Paris,  and  travelled 
east  and  west,  he  was  ever  happiest  in 
London  ;  in  absence  ever  longed  to  return  ; 
never  wished  to  live  beyond  the  frontiers 
of  St.  James's  Street  on  the  east,  of  Kensing- 
ton on  the  west.  That  he  (or  his  penself) 
afrixed  the  cartoon  of  Punch  to  the  great 
Pyramid  .  .  .  "at  nineteen  minutes  past 
seven,  by  the  clock  of  the  great  minaret 
140 


Thackeray -Land 

at  Cairo,"  if  we  may  take  him  literally  .  .  . 
is  by  no  means  insignificant.  In  another 
sense,  Thackeray,  when  abroad,  was  con- 
tinually affixing  a  cartoon  of  British 
superiority,  or  British  badinage,  or  British 
indifference,  on  persons  and  things  and 
episodes  to  him  distasteful  or  uncongenial. 
Even  in  his  maturity,  in  his  most  famous 
work,  this  tendency  was  continually  in- 
dulged, and  sometimes  offensively,  as,  for 
example,  in  the  remarks  on  foreign 
"  Society  "  at  Rome,  in  the  episode  of  the 
final  meeting  of  "  Mme.  de  Rawdon  "  and 
Lord  Steyne.  It  is  this  that  more  than  any 
other  reason  makes  so  much  of  his  early 
writings,  more  particularly  his  travel -papers, 
so  wearisome  now,  often,  alas  !  so  banal. 
There  is  no  great  writer  of  our  time  who 
has  committed  so  much  that  is  common- 
place in  thought  and  observation,  and 
commonplace  and  often  jejune  in  style. 
Thackeray's  name  has  become  a  fetish,  and 
if  one  whisper  a  contrarious  opinion  it  is 
to  be  snubbed  with  contumely.  But  the 
Thackeray  of  Vanity  Fair,  of  The  New- 
comes,  of  Esmond  is  one  person,  the 
Thackeray  of  a  vast  amount  of  indifferent 
-"  pot  -boiling  "  is  another.  If  the  present 
writer  had  not  a  deep  admiration  for  the 
141 


Thackeray -Land 

author  of  the  three  great  works  named,  he 
would  be  more  chary  of  such  expression 
of  opinion  as  to  so  much  else  of  Thackeray's 
work.  A  complete  indifference  could  hardly 
mean  other  than  a  serious  deficiency  in 
oneself.  But  to  say  that  one  must  accept 
as  excellent  in  kind  what  one  really  finds 
commonplace  and  outworn,  and  often  per- 
verse and  in  the  worst  bourgeois  taste, 
simply  because  of  a  great  reputation,  is  to 
range  oneself  with  those  fanatics  who  (in 
their  infatuation  for  a  name,  and  not  for  the 
achievement  per  se)  would  have  us  accept 
Count  Robert  of  Paris  as  masterly  because 
it  bears  one  of  the  greatest  of  names  as 
author,  or  would  have  us  accept  Titus 
Andronicus  as  great  literature  because  it 
is  (or  is  by  many  supposed  to  be)  by 
Shakespeare,  or  would  have  us  accept  as 
treasurable  all  the  dross  and  debris  to  be 
found  along  the  starry  path  of  Robert 
Burns. 

Doubtless  many  a  reader  will  be  moved 
to  like  reflections  if  he  turn  to  these  much- 
praised  travel -sketches  of  the  great  author, 
whose  fame  by  some  singular  irony  seems  to 
grow  in  proportion  as  the  literary  temper 
and  taste  of  a  later  day  slowly  but  steadily 
recede  from  all  in  his  work  related  to  the 
142 


Thackeray -Land 

occasional  and  accidental,  the  accent  of  the 
hour,  the  bygone  and  the  crude. 

But  the  topographical  Thackerayan  will 
insist  now  on  those  two  other  delightful 
"  Sketch-Books,"  which  also  appeared 
"under  the  travelling  title  of  Mr.  Tit  marsh," 
to  quote  from  the  author's  dedication  of  the 
later  of  the  two  to  Charles  Lever  :  The 
Paris  Sketch  Book  and  The  Irish  Sketch  Book. 

Probably  hundreds  of  Thackeray -admirers, 
unable  to  re -peruse  with  pleasure  the  long 
so  much  belauded,  but  surely  wearisomely 
overdone  and  now  less  regarded  Book  of 
Snobs,  can  turn  again  with  pleasure  to  these 
high-spirited  and  amusing  records  of  days 
and  hours,  of  persons  and  things  :  in  Ireland, 
from  the  Giant's  Causeway  to  Cork,  and 
from  Dublin  to  Gal  way  ;  in  Paris,  from 
Heaven -knows -what -all,  from  Caricatures 
and  Melodramas,  to  George  Sand  and  the 
New  Apocalypse.  Nevertheless,  it  would 
be  absurd  to  say  that  in  these  we  have  to 
seek  the  geography  of  Thackeray -land. 
He  took  his  holiday  thus  once  in  a  way  ; 
but  his  own  land,  the  true  country  ot 
Thackeray,  lies  elsewhere — in  so  far  as  a 
novelist  whose  country  is  human  nature 
can  be  restricted  at  all  by  the  literary 
geographer.  No,  let  there  be  peace  among 
143 


Thackeray -Land 

the  lovers  of  that  immortal  work — not  even 
is  this  land  to  seek  in  The  Kickleburys  on 
the  Rhine,  for  all  the  Becky -Sharp-like  little 
ways  of  "  Miss  Fanni,  la  belle  Kickleburi," 
as  the  enamoured  Adolphe  spoke  of  "  Miss 
K."  to  the  philosophic  Alphonse  ;  for  all 
that  is  told  of  the  maturing  in  wisdom  of 
Lady  Kicklebury,  .  .  .  who,  it  will  be 
remembered,  was  finally  brought  to  admit 
decisively,  if  incoherently,  "that  Shake- 
speare was  very  right  in  stating  how  much 
sharper  than  a  thankless  tooth  it  is  to 
have  a  serpent  child  "  ;  for  all  that  is  set 
forth  concerning  Mr.  Titmarsh  (the  real 
M.  Angelo !),  Captain  Hicks,  the  mild  Mr. 
Milliken,  and  "  his  soul's  angel  and  his 
adored  blessing  "  Lavinia  and  her  chronic 
effort  to  be  calm,  and  all  other  com- 
panions of  pilgrimage  in  that  celebrated 
Tour  Abroad.  And  yet  .  .  .  who  would  will- 
ingly relinquish  such  a  vignette  of  natural 
beauty  as  that  of  Deutz  and  the  Drachen- 
fels  ...  a  fragment  radiant  with  that 
true  Thackerayan  light — recognisable  ever, 
whether  playing  on  things  or  places  or 
persons — which  we  all  love  ? 

"  [When  I  woke  up  it  was  Cologne,  and 
it  was  not  sunrise  yet.]     Deutz  lay  opposite, 
144 


Thackeray -Land 

and  over  Deutz  the  dusky  sky  was  reddened. 
The  hills  were  veiled  in  the  mist  and  the 
grey.  The  grey  river  flowed  underneath 
us  ;  the  steamers  were  roosting  along  the 
quays,  a  light  keeping  watch  in  the  cabins 
here  and  there,  and  its  reflections  quivering 
in  the  water.  As  I  look,  the  skyline 
towards  the  east  grows  redder  and  redder. 
A  long  troop  of  grey  horsemen  winds  down 
the  river  road,  and  passes  over  the  bridge 
of  boats.  You  might  take  them  for  ghosts, 
those  grey  horsemen,  so  shadowy  do  they 
look ;  but  you  hear  the  trample  of  their  horses' 
hoofs  as  they  pass  over  the  planks.  Every 
minute  the  dawn  twinkles  up  into  the 
twilight  ;  and  over  Deutz  the  heaven 
blushes  brighter.  The  quays  begin  to  fill 
with  men  ;  the  carts  began  to  creak  and 
rattle,  and  wake  the  sleeping  echoes.  Ding, 
ding,  ding,  the  steamers'  bells  begin  to 
ring  :  the  people  on  board  to  stir  and  wake  : 
the  lights  may  be  extinguished,  and  take 
their  turn  of  sleep  :  the  active  boats  shake 
themselves  and  push  out  into  the  river  : 
the  great  bridge  opens,  and  gives  them 
passage  :  the  church  bells  of  the  city  begin 
to  clink  :  the  cavalry  trumpets  blow  from 
the  opposite  bank  :  the  sailor  is  at  the 
wheel,  the  porter  at  his  burden,  the  soldier 
iv  145  K 


Thackeray -Land 

at    his    musket,    and     the    priest    at     his 
prayers.  .  .  . 

"  And  lo  !  in  a  flash  of  crimson  splendour, 
with  blazing  scarlet  clouds  running  before 
his  chariot,  and  heralding  his  majestic 
approach,  God's  sun  rises  upon  the  world, 
and  all  nature  wakens  and  brightens." 

In  this  passage  from  an  early  work  we 
have  the  real  Thackeray.  It  is  in  all  ways 
characteristic,  and  would  appear  still  more 
convincingly  so  if  quoted  to  its  close  :  for 
it  was  Thackeray's  liking  to  conclude  even 
the  lightest  of  his  longer  writings  with  a 
passage  of  personal  emotion,  of  a  sudden 
tidal  eloquence,  informed  at  the  close  with 
a  note  of  deep  religious  feeling.  But  the 
actual  lines  quoted  are  interesting  in  that 
they  reveal  the  author's  favourite  method 
in  description  .  .  .  his  aptitude  for  the 
salient  feature,  his  instinct  for  the  accumula- 
tion of  images  and  facts  in  short  intimately - 
related  sentences,  and  oftenest  with  the  use 
of  the  colon.  It  is  interesting,  too,  as  we 
have  in  this  early  developed  method  and 
manner  of  Thackeray  in  description  a 
prelude  to  the  method  and  manner  of  a 
still  greater  master  of  prose  ;  for  George 
Meredith  .  .  .  the  George  Meredith  of  The 
146 


Thackeray  -Land 

Ordeal  of  Richard  Fever  el,  of  Beauchamp^s 
Career,  of  Sandra  Belloni  and  Vittoria  and 
Diana  of  the  Crossways  .  .  .  was  in  his 
youth  an  eager  student  of  Thackeray, 
and  unquestionably  was  influenced  by 
him  more  than  by  any  contemporary 
author  except  possibly  Thomas  Love 
Peacock. 

Not,  however,  that  the  reader  of  Thackeray 
will  easily  find  many  like  passages,  except  in 
the  Travel -Sketches — French,  Irish,  "  Corn- 
hill  to  Cairo,"  to  the  later  "  Little  Sketches  " 
from  Richmond  to  Ghent,  Brussels,  and 
Waterloo.  There  is  no  other  great  novelist 
who  indulges  so  seldom  in  descriptive  detail, 
who  so  rarely  limns  his  personages  or  relates 
their  experiences  against  the  background 
of  nature,  whether  of  scenic  effect  or  of  the 
great  elemental  forces.  Thackeray's  method 
is  in  this  respect  the  extreme  contrast  to 
that  of  the  greatest  of  his  contemporaries, 
Victor  Hugo.  It  is  as  inconceivable  that 
he  could  have  written  any  book  even  dimly 
approaching  Les  Travailleurs  de  la  Mer, 
as  it  is  inconceivable  that  Victor  Hugo 
could  have  written  such  vast  meandering 
tales  as  Pendennis  or  The  Virginians  in  the 
minor  key  throughout,  without  a  touch 
of  melodrama,  without  the  perpetual 


Thackeray -Land 

background  of  the  natural  world  and  all  the 
elemental  forces.  Not  that  we  need  seek  a 
foreign  writer  with  whom  to  point  the 
contrast.  Thackeray  had  two  great  con- 
temporaries at  home  whose  genius  recognised 
and  demonstrated  the  immense  imaginative 
value  of  "background."  Who  that  re- 
members some  of  the  most  impressive  pages 
in  Great  Expectations  or  David  Copperfield, 
or  recalls  all  the  mature  achievement  of 
the  author  of  Shirley  and  Jane  Eyre  and 
Villette  ...  or,  it  may  be  added,  that 
book  of  cloud  and  wind,  of  storm-swept 
moors  and  storm-tossed  hearts,  Wuthering 
Heights — can  fail  to  regret  that  Thackeray 
had  not  with  his  compeers  Charles  Dickens 
and  Charlotte  Bronte,  that  larger  vision 
and  deeper  intellectual  and  artistic  senti- 
ment which  has  since  been  so  distinguishing 
a  feature  of  every  great  achievement  in 
contemporary  imaginative  fiction  ...  in 
France  from  Chateaubriand  or  Victor  Hugo 
to  the  author  of  Les  Pecheurs  d'lslande,  in 
Russia  from  Turgeniev  and  Tolstoi  to 
Maxim  Gorki,  in  our  own  country  from 
Walter  Scott  to  Thomas  Hardy  ?  It 
is  in  all  probability,  this  lack  in  Thackeray 
that  more  than  all  else  accounts  for  what 
a  recent  critic  alludes  to  as  "  the  growing 
148 


Thackeray -Land 

contemporary  revolt  against  his  vague 
discursiveness  on  the  one  hand,  and  his 
general  newspaperiness  of  method  on  the 
other "...  that  is,  the  method  of  the 
journalist  who  considers  the  relation  of 
facts  and  circumstance  and  conversation  to 
be  all  in  all — or  at  best  to  need  no  more 
than  circumstantial  comment. 

A  really  intimate  knowledge  of  his 
writings,  however,  would  enable  one,  if 
not  to  refute,  at  any  rate  greatly  to  modify, 
any  inference  that  Thackeray  lacked  the 
power  to  create  in  "  the  two  worlds  that 
are  yet  one  world."  That  he  can  describe 
in  beauty  no  reader  of  his  earlier  writings 
need  be  reminded  ;  that,  and  more  and 
more  as  he  grew  older,  he  became  (actually 
or  apparently)  artistically  indifferent  to  all 
save  action  and  motive  and  the  general 
externals  of  human  life,  it  would  not  be 
easy  to  disprove.  In  the  writings  of  his 
final  period,  with  the  exception  of  a  few 
passages  in  The  Virginians — and,  consider- 
ing the  inordinate  length  of  that  book, 
how  few  these  passages  are  ! — it  is  extra- 
ordinary how  little  stress  is  laid  on  or  how 
little  note  is  taken  of  natural  environment 
or  background.  Let  the  reader  turn  to  the 
three  final  novels,  Lovel  the  Widower,  The 
149 


Thackeray -Land 

Adventures  of  Philip,  and  the  unfinished 
Denis  Duval,  and  he  will  probably  concur 
in  this  opinion. 

In  Philip  I  remember  that  the  charming 
wife  of  the  hero  on  their  honeymoon  in 
Paris  wrote  that  she  and  Philip  walked 
home  under  "  a  hundred  million  blazing 
stars  "—and  I  honestly  doubt  if  in  the 
whole  novel  there  is  anything  of  the  kind 
more  detailed  !  True,  I  have  not  looked 
at  the  novel  in  question  for  some  years,  till 
a  rapid  glance  a  little  while  ago  in  order 
to  verify  my  quotation ;  nevertheless,  I 
still  abide  by  my  doubt.  In  this  respect  it 
is  interesting  to  contrast  three  "  last  works  " 
— each  left  unfinished — by  acknowledged 
great  writers  :  Denis  Duval,  Edwin  Drood, 
and  Weir  of  Hermiston.  In  Denis  Duval  we 
are  never  acutely  aware  of  external  nature 
and  the  elemental  forces  of  nature  ;  in 
Edwin  Drood  the  reader  feels  the  influence 
of  both  at  the  outset  ;  in  Stevenson's 
superb  fragment  we  are  ever  aware  of  the 
great  loneliness  of  the  Pentland  solitudes, 
of  the  coming  of  rain  and  storm  and  serene 
peace,  of  the  magic  of  moonlight,  of  the 
subtle  fascination  of  familiar  and  yet  ever 
unfamiliar  vistas,  of  the  indescribable 
presence  and  secret  influence  of  the  hill- 
150 


Thackeray -Land 

wind — and  all  this  without  for  a  moment 
hindering  the  movement  of  the  drama, 
without  once  diverting  the  reader's  rapt 
attention.  No  one  would  be  so  uncritical 
as  to  compare  on  any  other  ground  two 
books  so  different  in  method,  intention,  and 
achievement  as  Denis  Duval  and  Weir 
of  Hermiston,  except  that  they  are  thus 
linked  in  the  accident  of  fragmentary 
finality. 

In  any  endeavour,  then,  to  define  the 
literary  geography  of  Thackeray -land  it 
would  be  necessary  to  relinquish  the  idea 
of  a  chart  of  all  the  divers  parts,  places, 
and  remote  regions  between  Palestine  in 
the  East  and  Virginia  in  the  West  touched 
upon  by  Thackeray's  facile  pen.  From 
Jerusalem  to  the  Rhine,  from  Athens  to 
Gal  way  Bay,  from  Brussels  to  Baltimore, 
is  too  extensive  for  any  topographer  to 
attempt.  The  Thackerayan  lover  and 
student  will  find  his  time  cut  out  for  him, 
if  he  wish  to  make  a  chart  of  all  his  author's 
wanderings  with  the  names  of  every  place 
mentioned  in  the  vast  wilderness  of  his 
writings  !  From  1840  to  1860  ...  in  these 
twenty  years  from  Thackeray's  thirtieth 
year  to  his  fiftieth,  from  the  days  of 
the  immortal  Yellowplush  and  the  first 


Thackeray -Land 

appearance  of  a  Titmarsh  and  the  tale  of  the 
Great  Hoggarty  Diamond,  to  the  close  of 
the  great  period  that  culminated  in  The 
Newcomes  and  the  advent  of  the  final 
period  that  began  with  The  Virginians — 
in  the  work  of  this  score  of  years  the  would- 
be  geographer  will  find  ample  material  for 
a  sufficiently  bewildering  place -puzzle,  from 
the  "  London,  E.G."  of  the  early  and  re- 
pellent Catherine  to  the  little  town  of  Chur 
in  the  Grisons  in  the  essay  On  a  Lazy  Idle 
Boy,  untimately  included  in  the  author's 
latest  completed  work,  the  Roundabout 
Papers. 

But  as  this  is  one  of  the  latest — possibly 
the  latest — of  Thackeray's  few  latter-day 
togographical  passages,  it  must  be  quoted 
for  the  delectation  of  the  present  liter ary- 
geographers  : 

"  I  had  occasion  to  spend  a  week  in  the 
autumn  in  the  little  old  town  of  Coire  or 
Chur,  in  the  Grisons,  where  lies  buried  that 
very  ancient  British  king,  saint,  and  martyr, 
Lucius,  who  founded  the  Church  of  St. 
Peter  on  Cornhill.  .  .  .  The  pretty  little 
city  stands,  so  to  speak,  at  the  end  of  the 
world — of  the  world  of  to-day,  the  world 
of  rapid  motion,  and  rushing  railways,  and 
152 


Thackeray  -Land 

the  commerce  and  intercourse  of  men. 
From  the  northern  gate,  the  iron  road 
stretches  away  to  Zurich,  to  Basle,  to 
Paris,  to  home.  From  the  old  southern 
barriers,  before  which  a  little  river  rushes, 
and  around  which  stretch  the  crumbling 
battlements  of  the  ancient  town,  the  road 
bears  the  slow  diligence  or  lagging  vetturino 
by  the  shallow  Rhine,  through  the  awful 
gorges  of  the  Via  Mala,  and  presently  over 
the  Splugen  to  the  shores  of  Como.  ...  I 
have  seldom  seen  a  place  more  quaint, 
pretty,  calm,  and  pastoral  than  this 
remote  little  Chur.  What  need  have  the 
inhabitants  for  walls  and  ramparts,  ex- 
cept to  build  summer-houses,  to  trail 
vines,  and  hang  clothes  to  dry  on  them  ? 
No  enemies  approach  the  great  mouldering 
gates  :  only  at  morn  and  even  the  cows 
come  lowing  past  them,  the  village  maidens 
chatter  merrily  round  the  fountains,  and 
babble  like  the  ever  voluble  stream 
that  flows  under  the  old  walls  ...  a 
quiet,  quaint,  pleasant,  pretty,  old 
town  !  "  * 

*  This,  the  first  of  the  Roundabout  Papers,  was 
originally  the  editorial  prologue  to  the  new 
Cornhill—the  Cornhtll  with  Thackeray  at  the 
helm.  Was  there  ever  a  more  delightful  set-off 

153 


Thackeray -Land 

How  characteristic  that  touch  early  in 
this  quotation  .  .  .  "to  Zurich,  &c.,  to 
home "  /  That  is  Thackeray  speaking  as 
to  a  circle  of  intimates.  We  can  almost 
imagine  him  saying  Hear,  hear !  to  the 
mocking  adieux  of  a  man  whom  he  would 
have  detested  as  mercilessly  as  he  would 
have  "  scotched "  the  fantastic  vogue  of 
which  he  was  the  representative  ...  to 
the  "  soon  we  shall  see  once  more  the 
tender  grey  of  the  Piccadilly  pavement  ; 
and  the  subtle  music  of  Old  Bond  Street 
will  fall  furtively  upon  our  ears,"  of  the 
"  tragical  buffoon"  disguised  for  us  as 
Esme  Amarinth  in  the  most  brilliant  satirical 
comedy  given  us  since  the  vast  drama  of 
Vanity  Fair  .  .  .  The  Green  Carnation. 

It  is  no  use  to  think  of  following  Mr. 
Tit  marsh  and  the  Kickleburys  to  the  Rhine, 
or  of  tracking  Joseph  Sedley  and  Dobbin 
to  Paris,  or  of  "  being  in  at  "  that  famous 
episode  of  Miss  Rebecca  and  the  Pumper- 
nickel students — still  less  to  pursue  that 
indomitable  searcher  after  the  Flesh-pots 
in  her  latter-day  migrations  throughout 
Europe,  from  Tours  to  Toplitz,  from  St. 

to  a  new  magazine  than  this  charming,  sunny, 
and  humorously  winsome  essay,  with  all  its 
ingenious  allusions  to  other  novelists  ? 

154 


Thackeray -Land 

Petersburg   to   Boulogne.     Of  course,   if  a 
Thackerayan  reader  find  himself  in  Brussels 
he  may,  with  a  phantom  Henry  Esmond, 
seek  the  con  vent -grave  of  the  Sceur  Marie 
Madeleine,   once   the   gay   and   fashionable 
Lady  Castle  wood,  and  poor  Esmond's  un- 
happy mother — or,  with  a  phantom  Amelia 
Sedley,    will    hold    his    breath    while    the 
darkness  of  an  imaginary  night  of  Waterloo 
follows    the    dull    echo    of    the    guns,    and 
thousands    of    other    praying    or    sobbing 
women  await  the  dread  coming  of  after- 
battle  tidings.     If  a  visitor  to   Boulogne - 
sur-Mer,  could  he  possibly  omit  a  stroll  to 
the  Chateau  de  Brequerecque,  where  in  1854 
Thackeray  lived  for  a  time,  thinking  out 
and    touch    by    touch    creating    the    most 
lovable  of  all  his  characters,  Colonel  Thomas 
Newcome  ?     In   Paris,  of  course,  such  an 
one  could  not  possibly  be  without  thought 
of  the  Hotel  de  la  Terrasse,  where  Becky 
Sharp  lived  awhile  ;  without  a  reminiscence 
of  Terra's  Tavern  in  the  Rue  Neuve  des 
Petits  Champs,  immortalised  in  the  Ballad 
of  Bouillabaisse.     If  perchance,  again,  such 
an   one   be   a   passing    visitor   to   remoter 
Strasburg — not   a  likely  place,   one  would 
think,     for     Thackerayan     associations  ! — 
would  he  not  instinctively  seek  for  some 
155 


Thackeray -Land 

prototype  of  heroic  Mary  Ancel,  or  watch 
a  phantom  Pierre  Ancel  riding  wearily 
from  the  western  gate,  or  feel  inclined 
secretly  to  identify  in  some  harmless  passer- 
by the  treacherous  Schneider,  that  pro- 
vincial understudy  for  the  great  parts  of 
Robespierre  and  Marat  in  the  terrible 
Melodrama  of  the  Revolution  ?  In  Stras- 
burg  of  to-day,  however,  even  such  an  one 
would  look  in  vain  for  any  possible  counter- 
part to  that  other  gentleman  whom  the 
good  Pierre  first  saw  in  Schneider's  room 
(Schneider,  ex-abbe,  ex-monk,  ex-professor, 
quondam  editor  of  the  Songs  of  Anacreon, 
once  Royal  Chaplain  and  one  of  the 
Illuminati  at  the  capital  of  Wurtemberg — 
become  at  last  a  bloodhound  to  the  blood- 
stained Directorate  of  France) — the  gentle- 
man with  a  red  night -cap  ornamented  with 
"  a  tricolor  cockade  as  large  as  a  pancake," 
with  a  huge  pigtail,  seated  at  a  greasy 
wine-stained  table,  moved  to  frequent  ex- 
clamatory grief  and  bibulous  tears  by  the 
book  he  is  reading,  The  Sorrows  of  Werther, 
and  ever  and  again  ejaculating  "  O  this 
poor  Charlotte!"  or  "Ah,  Brigand"  .  .  . 
the  sentimental  gentleman  whom  Pierre 
Ancel  thought  to  be  a  tender-hearted  lamb 
for  all  his  wolf's  clothing,  but  whom 

156 


Thackeray -Land 

Schneider,  on  his  abrupt  entrance,  thrusts 
from  the  room  with  the  significant  remark, 
"  You  drunken  talking  fool  .  .  .  fourteen 
people  are  cooling  their  heels  yonder, 
waiting  until  you  have  finished  your  beer 
and  your  sentiment  : 

"  That  fellow,"  continued  Schneider,  turn- 
ing to  me,  "  is  our  public  executioner  : 
a  capital  hand  too  if  he  would  but  keep 
decent  time  :  but  the  brute  is  always 
drunk,  and  blubbering  over  The  Sorrows 
of  Werther." 

These,  and  a  score — a  hundred — other 
instances,  might  be  adduced  ;  but  then  a 
series  of  maps,  not  a  precis  of  a  London 
Thackeray-Directory,  would  be  needed. 
Even  in  our  own  country  the  localities  to 
be  sought  would  be  far  apart  .  .  .  as 
Clevedon  Court,  in  Somersetshire,  the  beauti- 
ful original  of  the  "  Castle  wood  "  of  Esmond  ; 
as  Larkbeare  House,  near  Ottery  St.  Mary 
in  Devon,  the  early  home  of  Thackeray's 
mother,  and  where  he  spent  his  holidays 
as  a  boy — a  neighbourhood  remembered  by 
him  later  when  he  was  writing  Pendennis, 
where  Ottery  St.  Mary,  Sidmouth,  and 
Exeter  are  alluded  to  as  "  Clavering  St. 
Mary,"  "  Baymouth,"  and  "  Chatteris  "  ; 
157 


Thackeray -Land 

as  the  scattered  Irish  and  English  county 
backgrounds  in  The  Memoirs  of  Barry 
Lyndon,  Vanity  Fair,  The  Newcomes,  Pen- 
dennis,  Adventures  of  Philip,  Lovel  the 

Widower,    &c.    &c from    Tunbridge 

Wells  to  Taunton,  from  Brighton  to  Bath. 
It  would  indeed  be  rash  to  assert  of  almost 
any  fairly  well-known  place  that,  if  not 
"  brought  in,"  it  is  at  least  unmentioned 
in  Thackeray's  writings.  How  few  readers, 
for  example,  would  have  thought  of  Stras- 
burg  in  connection  with  any  Thackerayan 
romance,  long  or  short  ?  And  only  the 
other  day,  in  an  article  about  Thackeray's 
wide  range,  its  writer  stated  in  effect  that 
Florence  was  perhaps  the  only  English  - 
frequented  town,  and  Rome  the  only  capital, 
with  which  Thackeray  had  no  literary 
dealings  in  his  fiction — evidently  oblivious, 
for  one  thing,  of  a  certain  famous  heroine 
who  in  Florence  kept  house  for  awhile  with 
the  unattached  Madame  de  Cruchecassee, 
or,  at  a  later  date,  as  Madame  de  Rawdon, 
met  at  the  Polonia  ball  in  Rome,  and  for 
the  last  time,  the  great  Lord  Steyne. 
Then,  again,  to  take  a  still  more  detailed 
instance,  what  of  the  thirty -fifth  chapter 
of  The  Newcomes  ? 

Brighton,   of  course,   is  a  place  apart  : 


Thackeray -Land 

a  detached  suburb,  rather,  for  is  it  not 
Thackeray's  "  London-by-the-Sea  "  ?  For 
the  ardent  Thackerayan  to  visit  Brighton 
without  a  single  reminiscence  would  be  as 
out  of  the  question  as  to  lunch  in  the 
Strangers'  Room  at  the  Reform  Club  and 
not  look  at  Lawrence's  famous  portrait 
of  the  great  man,  or  dine  at  the  Garrick 
and  have  no  heed  of  Durham's  massive 
"  bust  "  or  of  Sir  John  Gilbert's  charming 
posthumous  portrait.  Nowhere  more  than 
at  Brighton  was  Thackeray  "possessed" 
by  his  imaginary  personages — though,  as  he 
is  reported  to  have  said  on  one  occasion, 
"  in  London  they  become  almost  too 
actual  !  "  It  was  from  Brighton  that  (in 
1849,  when  he  was  thirty -eight,  and  had 
suddenly  become  nationally  famous  by  the 
publication  in  book-form  of  Vanity  Fair) 
he  wrote  to  his  friend  Mrs.  Brookfield, 
"  Being  entirely  occupied  with  my  two 
new  friends,  Mrs.  Pendennis  and  her  son 
Arthur  Pendennis,  I  got  up  very  early 
again  this  morning.  He  is  a  very  good- 
natured,  generous  young  fellow,  and  I 
begin  to  like  him  considerably."  It  was  to 
the  same  friend  that  he  wrote  on  another 
occasion  from  Paris  :  "...  I  have  been 
to  the  Hotel  de  la  Terrasse,  where  Becky 
159 


Thackeray -Land 

used  to  live,  and  shall  pass  by  Captain 
Osborne's  lodgings.  I  believe  perfectly  in 
all  these  people,  and  feel  quite  an  interest 
in  the  inn  in  which  they  lived." 

In  London  itself  I  suppose  Thackeray 
enthusiasts  were  formerly  wont  to  seek 
more  than  any  other  place  (for  now  Godalm- 
ing  claims  what  was  once  the  glory  of 
Smithfield)  the  Charterhouse — the  Grey 
Friars  of  The  Newcomes,  and  for  ever  now 
associated  with  the  beloved  memory  of 
incomparable  Colonel  Newcome.  Others, 
perhaps,  sought  first  those  "  dark  alleys, 
archways,  courts  and  backstairs  "  of  the 
Middle  Temple,  so  beloved  by  Thackeray  ; 
and  in  particular  Brick  Court,  and  the 
stairs  leading  to  the  chambers  once  occupied 
by  Goldsmith  .  .  .  visiting  these  no  doubt 
for  Thackeray's  sake  rather  than  for  other 
associations,  though  remembering  his  "I 
have  been  many  a  time  in  the  chambers  in 
the  Temple  which  were  his  (Goldsmith's), 
and  passed  up  the  staircase,  which  Johnson 
and  Burke  and  Reynolds  trod  to  see  their 
friend,  their  poet,  their  kind  Goldsmith — 
the  stair  on  which  the  poor  women  sat 
weeping  bitterly  when  they  heard  that  the 
greatest  and  most  generous  of  all  men 
was  dead  within  the  black  oak  door." 
160 


Thackeray -Land 

For  the  many  who  prefer  a  "  favourite- 
character  association "  than  one  more 
strictly  personal,  there  is  ample  material 
indeed.  Even  the  all  but  omniscient  life- 
long "  cabby  "  might  be  puzzled  to  make 
his  way  to  all  the  addresses  that  could  be 
given  him.  Even  he  might  go  astray  in 
Suburbia  if  his  "  fare  "  directed  him  to 
drive  from  Russell  Square  (where  the  ever- 
to-be-remembered  Sedleys  of  Vanity  Fair 
once  lived)  to  that  familiar-sounding  and 
yet  postally  unknown  address  whither  they 
migrated  ...  St.  Adelaide's  Villas,  Anna 
Maria  Road,  W. — "  where  the  houses  look 
like  baby -houses  ;  where  the  people,  looking 
out  of  the  first-floor  windows,  must  in- 
fallibly, as  you  think,  sit  with  their  feet 
in  the  parlours  ;  where  the  shrubs  in  the 
little  gardens  in  front  bloom  with  a  perennial 
display  of  little  children's  pinafores,  little 
red  socks,  caps,  &c.  (polyandria  polygynia) ; 
whence  you  hear  the  sound  of  jingling 
spinets  and  women  singing  ;  whither  of 
evenings  you  see  City  clerks  padding 
wearily.  ..." 

Among  the  numberless  houses,  rooms, 
chambers,  &c.,  connected  with  the  person- 
ages of  Vanity  Fair,  The  Newcomes,  Pen- 
dennis,  The  Adventures  of  Philip,  and  so 

IV  161  L 


Thackeray -Land 

many  other  writings  down  to  Our  Street 
and  Mrs.  Perkins*  Ball,  each  Thackeray  an 
reader  must  select  for  himself.  He  may 
wander  as  far  west  as  the  Brompton  board- 
ing-house where  Miss  Bunion  ate  her  daily 
breakfast  chop,  and  spent  the  rest  of  the 
day  in  the  composition  of  The  Deadly 
Nightshade  or  other  of  its  passionate  suc- 
cessors ;  or  may  wander  into  the  City  and 
in  a  counting-house  and  as  a  worthy  dry- 
salter  behold  Poseidon  Hicks — in  his  im- 
passioned but  highly  respectable  youth  the 
author  of  The  Death-Shriek  and  The  Bastard 
of  Lara,  and  later  of  Idiosyncrasy  :  in  Forty 
Books,  Marat :  an  Epic,  and  The  Megatheria 
("that  magnificent  contribution  to  our 
Pre-adamite  literature  ")  and  other  delicate 
trifles — a  mere  Mr.  Hicks  like  one  of  our- 
selves, immersed  in  the  commonplace  task 
of  checking  figures  or  posting  up  his  ledger. 
Or  he  may  keep  to  Central  London,  and  in 
Fitzroy  Square  look  up  at  the  house  occupied 
by  Colonel  Newcome,  its  black  door  "  cheer- 
fully ornamented  in  the  style  of  the  end 
of  the  last  century  with  a  funereal  urn  in 
the  centre  above  the  entry,  with  garlands 
and  the  skulls  of  rams  at  each  corner  "  ; 
or  may  pass  through  Mayfair  and  take  a 
glance  at  Gaunt  House,  with  all  its  memories 
162 


Thackeray -Land 

of  "  the  wicked  mar  kiss,"  en  route  to  visit 
trim  Major  Pendennis  breakfasting  at  his 
club,  occupied  as  usual  with  a  pile  of  letters 
from  lords  and  ladies  galore,  and  scowled 
at  as  usual  by  the  envious  and  unfashionable 
Glowry.  But  if  something  less  imposing 
than  a  morning  club -visit  to  Major 
Pendennis,  or  more  reputable  than  a  stroll 
to  the  sponging-house  in  Cursitor  Street 
where  Rawdon  Crawley  "  learned  life " 
after  the  festivities  at  Gaunt  House,  be 
desired,  is  there  not  adjacent  Curzon  Street, 
where  the  same  gentleman  and  the  im- 
mortal Becky  "  demonstrated  to  the  world 
the  useful  and  interesting  art  of  living  on 
nothing  a  year  "...  that  "  narrow  but 
respectable  mansion  "  where  Mrs.  Rawdon 
Crawley,  who  was  not  given  to  superfluous 
admirations,  and  in  whom  familiarity  ever 
bred  contempt,  for  the  first  time  had  a  brief 
aberration  of  admiration  for  her  husband, 
when  he  suddenly  abandoned  himself  to 
the  bodily  chastisement  of  the  Right 
Honourable  the  Marquis  of  Steyne,  Lord  of 
the  Powder  Closet,  &c.  &c.  &c.,  the  event 
that  the  (for  once)  impulsive  Becky  con- 
sidered had  "  ruined  "  her  life. 

The    quest,    as    already    hinted,    might 
better    befit    the    Wandering    Jew,    with 


Thackeray -Land 

unlimited  time  at  his  disposal  !  To  follow 
in  every  detail  the  vicissitudes  of  Becky 
alone  would  enable  the  enthusiast  to  qualify 
as  a  prince  of  European  couriers.  Where 
did  not  Mrs.  Rawdon  Crawley  .  .  .  whether 
so  called,  or  Mrs.  Rawdon,  or  Madame  de 
Rawdon,  or  Madame  Raudon,  or  Madame 
Rebecque  &c.,  &c.  .  .  .  not  set  her  wander- 
ing foot — from  far  St.  Petersburg  and 
remote  Toplitz  to  neighbouring  Boulogne, 
where,  with  good  Mrs.  Newbright,  it  will 
be  remembered  that  "  Mrs.  Becky  "  worked 
flannel  petticoats  for  the  Quashyboos  and 
cotton  night -caps  for  the  Cocoanut  Indians, 
and  generally  made  heroic  efforts  to  seem 
a  spotless  dove. 

Since  Becky's  wanderings  would  alone 
suffice  to  defeat  the  literary  geographer, 
perhaps  the  wisest  thing  for  the  enthusiast 
in  Thackeray -land  is  to  content  himself 
with  visiting  those  places  in  his  beloved 
London  the  great  novelist  himself  most 
loved,  and  the  homes  where  he  lived.  The 
Charterhouse,  of  wonderful  memories,  is 
gone  ;  but  the  Middle  Temple  remains, 
the  "  Garrick  "  and  the  "  Reform  "  are  as 
they  were.  One  cannot  "  begin  at  the 
beginning  "  as  children  ask  of  a  familiar 
story,  in  either  sense  ;  for  our  hero  was 
164 


Thackeray -Land 

born  at  far-away  Calcutta,  and  as  to  his 
earliest  manhood,  with  its  unfortunate 
marriage — that  belongs  to  Paris.*  But 
one  may  start  with  his  first  London  home, 
No.  1 8  Albion  Street,  Hyde  Park,  where 
he  came  soon  after  his  marriage  (on  the 
sudden  collapse  of  The  Constitutional) — 
to  his  mother's  house,  in  fact — and  began 
regular  literary  work  as  a  contributor  to 
Fraser's,  and  where  his  eldest  daughter, 
so  well  known  to  all  lovers  of  literature  as 
Mrs.  Richmond  Ritchie,  was  born. 

Thackeray's  first  "  own  home  "  in  London 
was  at  13  Great  Coram  Street,  Brunswick 
Square,  where  he  resided  from  1837  to 
1840  (at.  26-29),  and  wrote  The  Paris 
Sketch-Book  and  other  early  efforts,  and 
where  was  born  his  second  daughter,  who 
became  the  wife  of  the  late  Sir  Leslie 
Stephen.  Of  greater  literary  interest  is 
13  (now  16)  Young  Street,  Kensington, 
where  Thackeray  lived  from  1846  to  1853, 
and  wrote  the  greater  part  of  Vanity  Fair, 

*  The  apartments  in  the  Rue  Neuve  St. 
Augustin,  where  Thackeray  took  Miss  Shawe 
after  their  marriage  at  the  British  Embassy  in 
August  1836,  may  still  be  seen,  and  much  as  they 
were  when  the  young  "  English  correspondent  " 
of  The  Constitutional  here  took  up  home -life  and 
(as  he  thought)  journalism  as  a  profession. 

165 


Thackeray -Land 

Pendennis,  and  Henry  Esmond.  A  very 
famous  seven  years  of  his  life  were  those 
when  his  home  was  at  36  Onslow  Square, 
South  Kensington — "  a  pleasant,  bowery 
sort  of  home,  looking  out  upon  elm-trees," 
as  Mrs.  Richmond  Ritchie  records.  It  was 
here  that  the  new  and,  for  his  own  sake, 
too  famous  Editor  of  the  Cornhill  Magazine 
became  the  target  for  many  arrows  of 
supplication,  which  ought  to  have  been 
shot  off  against  the  editorial  citadel  at 
Messrs.  Smith  Elder's  ;  and  it  was  here 
he  wrote  the  closing  chapters  of  The 
Newcomes,  the  famous  Lectures  on  the  Four 
Georges,  The  Virginians,  part  of  The  Adven- 
tures of  Philip,  and  some  of  the  Roundabout 
Papers.  "  His  study,"  says  his  daughter, 
"  was  over  the  drawing-room,  and  looked 
out  upon  the  elm -trees."  Finally,  there 
is  the  more  imposing  last  home,  No.  2 
Palace  Gardens,  Kensington,  which  he  had 
built  for  him  in  1861  in  accordance  with 
his  own  designs  and  growing  needs  ;  and 
here,  on  the  day  before  Christmas  of  1863, 
he  died — a  man  still  young  in  years,  as  we 
now  compute  the  average  span,  but  aged 
by  sorrow,  prolonged  strain,  and  the  cease- 
less, nervous  expenditure  of  an  over -busy 
life.  At  his  death  Thackeray  stood  out 
1 66 


Thackeray -Land 

so  great,  at  his  best  one  can  hardly  yet 
say  how  great,  a  genius  of  laughter  and  tears, 
that  few  will  deny  the  aptness  of  the 
tribute  of  one  of  the  homage-bearing  poets 
of  a  Sister  Nation  : 

And  so  Hie  Jacet—  that  is  all 
That  can  be  writ  or  said  or  sung 

Of  him  who  held  in  such  a  thrall, 
With  his  melodious  gift  of  pen  and  tongue, 
Both  nations — old  and  young. 

Honour's  a  hasty  word  to  speak, 
But  now  I  say  it  solemnly  and  slow 

To  the  one  Englishman  most  like  that  Greek 
Who  wrote  The  Clouds  two  thousand  years  ago. 


167 


THE  BRONTE  COUNTRY 

THE  real  Bronte  country  is  to  be  sought  in 
two  regions  :  in  and  just  beyond  the  West 
Riding  of  Yorkshire,  in  those  windy  uplands 
and  wide  reaches  of  sombre  moor  which  lie 
away  from  Ha  worth,  away  from  the  high- 
ways where  excursion -drag  and  motor-car 
corrupt  :  and  ...  in  the  Bronte  books. 
Broadly  speaking,  the  Jane  Eyre  country  is  all 
round  Kirkby  Lonsdale  :  the  Shirley  country 
is  south  of  Bradford,  and  may  be  said  to  be 
bounded  by  Gomersall,  Birstal,  Brighouse, 
Mirfield,  Heckmondwike,  and  back  to  Gomer- 
sall ;  while  the  Wuthering  Heights  country 
can  only  be  indicated  by  the  region  around 
Haworth.  "  The  Withens  "  is  on  the  hill-top 
above  Haworth,  and  is  supposed  to  represent 
the  situation  of  Wuthering  Heights.  The 
house  itself,  as  detailed  in  Emily  Bronte's 
famous  romance,  is  a  composite  picture  ;  the 
interior  having  been  suggested  by  Ponden 
Hall,  near  Haworth,  and  the  exterior  by 
High  Sunder  land,  Law  Hill,  near  Halifax. 
This,  at  least,  is  the  opinion  of  those  best 
168 


The  Bronte  Country 

acquainted    with    the    topography    of    the 
subject. 

A  friend,  who  has  never  been  north  of 
the  great  shoulder  of  Sir  William  in  Upper 
Derbyshire,    and    who    read    this    summer 
for  the  first  time,  at  a  remote  moorland 
farm,   Wuthering  Heights  and  Shirley,  told 
me  that  he  knew  the  Bronte  country  as 
thoroughly  as  any  one  not  a  native — "  and 
a  native  in  love  with  it,  at  that  " — could 
do.     "  For,"  he  added,    "  a  north-country 
moorland-track  is  the  same  wherever  the 
whaup  calls,   the  kestrel  hovers,   and  the 
heather -bee    hums,    and    it    matters    little 
whether    'tis    in    Peakland,    or    the    West 
Riding,  or  where  Carlyle  first  drew  breath, 
or  up  by  the  Eildons  or  beyond  Ochil." 
And,  to  no  small  extent,  that  is  true,   I 
think.     Certainly  one  can  understand  Jane 
Eyre   and   Shirley   and    Wuthering   Heights 
without  even  a  glimpse  of  Haworth   Par- 
sonage   or    Cowan    Bridge    School    or    any 
other  of  the  much -visited  buildings  or  sites 
or  localities  :    certainly,  for  some  at  least, 
these  books  will  seem  far  more  near  and 
intimate  when  dissociated  from  these  and 
all    the    paraphernalia    of    tradition,    when 
read  or  pondered  with  only  wide  dun  or 
purple  moorlands  around,  with  cloud  and 
169 


The  Bronte  Country 

wind,  the  lapwing,  the  floating  kestrel, 
and  the  wild  bee  for  company. 

Neither  familiarity  nor  love  blunted 
Charlotte  Bronte's  own  perspicacity  in  this 
respect,  where,  if  allowable  to  any,  surely 
some  exaggeration  might  be  pardoned  in 
her.  She  herself  wrote  of  this  home -tract 
of  Haworth,  "  Mills  and  scattered  cottages 
chase  romance  from  these  valleys ;  it 
is  only  higher  up,  deep  in  among  the 
ridges  of  the  moors,  that  Imagination 
can  find  rest  for  the  sole  of  her  foot, 
and  even  if  she  find  it  there,  she  must 
be  a  solitude -loving  raven — no  gentle 
dove." 

Nevertheless,  Haworth  is  still  the  goal 
of  a  number  of  wayfaring  enthusiasts, 
drawn  thither  by  a  geniune  love  of  or  keen 
interest  in  the  Bronte  novels  and  their 
authors.  Some  quarter  of  a  century  ago, 
Sir  Wemyss  Reid,  in  his  sympathetic 
monograph  on  Charlotte  Bronte,  wrote 
as  follows  : 

"  No  other  land  furnished  so  many  eager 
and  enthusiastic  visitors  to  the  Bronte 
shrine  as  the  United  States,  and  the  number 
of  Americans  who  found  their  way  to 
Haworth  during  the  ten  years  immediately 
170 


The  Bronte  Country 

following  the  death  of  the  author  of  Jane 
Eyre  would,  if  properly  recorded,  astonish 
the  world.  The  bleak  and  lonely  house 
by  the  side  of  the  moors,  with  its  dismal 
little  garden  stretching  down  to  the  church- 
yard, where  the  village  dead  of  many  a 
generation  rest,  and  its  dreary  outlook 
upon  the  old  tower  rising  from  its  bank  of 
nettles,  the  squalid  houses  of  the  hamlet, 
and  the  bare  moorlands  beyond,  received 
almost  as  many  visitors  from  the  other  side 
of  the  Atlantic  during  those  years  as 
Abbotsford  or  Stratford-on-Avon." 

To-day  the  stream  of  visitors  is  greater 
than  ever.  Since  the  opening  of  the  Bronte 
Museum  in  May  1895  over  twenty-five 
thousand  persons  have  paid  for  admission, 
and  of  course  this  number  is  far  from 
representing  the  total  of  those  who  have 
made  pilgrimage  to  Ha  worth.  Even  the 
American  element,  though  not  what  it  was, 
is  still  largely  represented.  As,  in  reply  to 
a  comment,  an  old  weaver  caustically  re- 
marked, "  Aye,  we  Haw'rth  folk  doan't 
spake  Yorkshire  waay  ony  moar  :  'tis 
awl  gooid  Lunnon  an'  '  Amurican  '  naah, 
theysaay."  Whether  the  cause  is  in  greater 
railway  facilities,  in  better  roads  and 
171 


The  Bronte  Country 

accommodation  for  bicyclists,  or  in  the 
enchancement  of  public  interest  through 
the  many  Bronte  essays,  reminiscences, 
and  other  writings  which  have  appeared  of 
late,  or  in  all  three  equally,  multiplied  by 
that  great  factor,  a  convenient  and  interest- 
ing goal  for  a  fresh -air  spin  or  week-end 
holiday,  need  not  be  disputed. 

By  the  way,  let  the  unwary  visitor  not  be 
allured  by  the  many  glowing  descriptions  of 
the  moorland  weather  and  moorland  beauty 
at  all  seasons  of  the  year  and  at  all  times. 
The  West  Riding  moorland  and  most  of  the 
moorlands  of  Derbyshire  are  sombre  beyond 
any  other  regions  of  the  kind  in  England  ; 
in  stormy  and  cold  weather  they  may  be 
impressive,  but  in  the  prevailing  dull 
greyness  and  ever  recurring  rains  they 
have  neither  the  spell  of  "  lovely  solitude  " 
nor  "  a  grave  beauty  all  their  own,"  but 
often  are  simply  wide  dreary  stretches  of 
waste  land,  without  the  wildness  and  glow 
and  beauty  of  Exmoor,  or  of  the  high- 
lands of  Wales  and  Cumberland,  or  of  the 
great  moors  of  Scotland,  or  even  of  the 
heath-covered  rolling  heights  about  Danby, 
between  the  York  plain  and  Whitby  above 
the  sea.  There  are  hours  in  spring,  and 
many  days  in  summer,  and  sometimes 
172 


The  Bronte  Country 

weeks  in  early  autumn,  when  they  are  to 
be  seen  in  beauty  and  enjoyed  with  deep 
delight  by  all  who  love  solitude  and  great 
spaces  and  the  breath  and  freedom  of  the 
desert.     But    ordinarily    the    country    here 
is  sombre  and  depressing,  and  all  the  more 
so  (as  in    so    many  parts    of    Derbyshire) 
from    the   frequent   signs    of    discarded   or 
failing  human  industries,  shafts  of  deserted 
mines,  stacks  of  forsaken  mills,  smokeless 
cottages,    and    rude    unkempt    villages    on 
their  downward  way  to  become  still  ruder 
and   more   unkempt   hamlets.     As    to   the 
spring    climate,    about    which    biographers 
who  have  not  been  at   Haworth  at   that 
season    are    apt    to    become    dithyrambic, 
here  is  one  from  many  incidental  allusions 
in  Charlotte  Bronte's  delightful  letters  to 
Miss  Ellen  Nussey.     It  is  in  a  letter  from 
Haworth  in  the  late  spring  of  the  year  in 
which  she  was  engaged  upon  Jane  Eyre: 
"  I    wish   to   know   whether   about   Whit- 
suntide   would    suit    you    for    coming    to 
Haworth.     We    often    have    fine    weather 
just  then.     At  least  I  remember  last  year 
it  was  very  beautiful  at  that  season.   Winter 
seems  to  have  returned  with  severity  on  us 
at  present,  consequently  we  are  all  in  the 
full  enjoyment  of  a  cold.     Much  blowing 
173 


The  Bronte  Country 

of  noses  is  heard,  and  much  making  of 
gruel  goes  on  in  the  house."  About  the 
middle  of  May  she  writes  again,  "  I  pray  for 
fine  weather,  that  we  may  be  able  to  get  out 
while  you  stay."  There  we  have  the 
weather -burthen  of  many  letters  :  the 
"just  then  "  that  so  rarely  comes  off,  the 
"  at  least  I  remember  "  that  qualifies  too 
flattering  retrospection.  In  a  word,  if  one 
were  to  spend  nine  months  of  the  year  at 
Haworth,  one  would  soon  come  to  under- 
stand the  gloom  and  depression  which  often 
weighed  so  heavily  on  Charlotte  and  Emily 
Bronte,  loving  daughters  of  the  moorlands 
though  they  were. 

But  of  course  they  of  all  people  knew 
and  loved  the  remoter  regions  of  the  West 
Riding  as  none  who  have  written  of  the 
sisters  can  do.  It  is  their  love  of  the 
lonely  moorlands,  the  understanding  of 
their  fascination,  of  their  spell  upon  the 
imagination,  which  has  given  the  most 
enduring  beauty  to  certain  pages  of  Shirley 
and  Jane  Eyre  and  Wuthering  Heights. 
If  one  remembers  Charlotte's  famous  "  Ne- 
cropolis "  passage  (that  has  so  much  of  the 
monumental  solemnity  and  slow  impressive 
cadence  of  the  De  Quincey  of  the  Suspiria), 
in  The  Professor,  one  will  recollect  how  the 
174 


The  Bronte  Country 

writer  took  with  her  this  phantom  of  Death, 
this  image  of  Melancholia,  out  into  the 
lonely  solitudes.  "...  She  lay  with  me, 
she  ate  with  me,  she  walked  out  with  me, 
showing  me  nooks  in  woods,  hollows  in 
hills,  where  we  could  sit  together,  and  where 
she  could  drop  her  dear  veil  over  me,  and 
so  hide  sky  and  sun,  grass  and  green  tree." 
If  one  remembers  this,  and  a  hundred 
kindred  passages  in  Charlotte's  books  and 
vivid  letters,  one  also  will  recall  other 
passages  in  these  and  in  her  sister  Emily's 
wonderful  pages,  as  full  of  charm  and 
loveliness  seen  and  recreated  as  in  this 
from  Wuthering  Heights  : 

"  He  said  the  pleasantest  manner  of 
spending  a  hot  July  day  was  lying  from 
morning  till  evening  on  a  bank  of  heath 
in  the  middle  of  the  moors,  with  the  bees 
humming  dreamily  about  among  the  bloom, 
and  the  larks  singing  high  up  overhead, 
and  the  blue  sky  and  bright  sun  shining 
steadily  and  cloudlessly.  That  was  his 
most  perfect  idea  of  heaven's  happiness. 
Mine  was  rocking  in  a  rustling  green  tree, 
with  a  west  wind  blowing,  and  bright 
white  clouds  flitting  rapidly  above  ;  and 
not  only  larks  but  throstles  and  blackbirds 
175 


The  Bronte  Country 

and  linnets  and  cuckoos  pouring  out  music 
on  every  side,  and  the  moors  seen  at  a 
distance  broken  into  cool  dusky  dells  ; 
but  close  by  great  swells  of  long  grass  un- 
dulating in  waves  to  the  breeze  ;  and 
woods  and  sounding  water  ;  and  the  whole 
world  awake  and  wild  with  joy.  He  wanted 
all  to  lie  in  an  ecstasy  of  peace.  I  wanted 
all  to  sparkle  and  dance  in  a  glorious 
jubilee.  I  said  his  heaven  would  be  only 
half  alive  ;  and  he  said  mine  would  be 
drunk.  I  said  I  should  fall  asleep  in 
his  ;  and  he  said  he  could  not  breathe  in 
mine." 

Or,  again,  this  passage  by  Charlotte, 
wherein  (as  Lowood)  she  alludes  to  Cowan 
Bridge,  where  she  was  at  school,  when  a 
terrible  outbreak  of  typhus  "  transformed 
the  seminary  into  a  hospital  "  : 

"  Pleasure  in  the  prospect  of  noble 
summits,  girdling  a  great  hill -hollow,  rich 
in  verdure  and  shadow  ;  in  a  bright  beck 
full  of  dark  stones  and  sparkling  eddies.  .  .  . 
A  bright,  serene  May  it  was  :  days  of  blue 
sky,  placid  sunshine,  and  soft  western 
or  southern  gales  filled  up  its  duration. 
And  now  vegetation  matured  with  vigour  ; 
176 


The  Bronte  Country 

Lowood  shook  loose  its  tresses  ;  it  became 
all  green,  all  flowery  ;  its  great  elm,  ash  and 
oak  skeletons  were  restored  to  majestic 
life  ;  unnumbered  varieties  of  moss  filled 
its  hollows  ;  and  it  made  a  strange  ground- 
sunshine  out  of  the  wealth  of  its  wild  prim- 
rose-plants. .  .  .  Have  I  not  described  a 
pleasant  site  for  a  dwelling,  when  I  speak 
of  it  as  bosomed  in  hill  and  wood,  and 
rising  from  the  verge  of  a  stream  ?  As- 
suredly, pleasant  enough ;  but  whether 
healthy  or  not  is  another  question.  The 
forest -dell  where  Lowood  lay  was  the 
cradle  of  fog  and  fog-bred  pestilence, 
which,  quickening  with  the  quickening 
spring,  crept  into  the  Orphan  Asylum, 
breathed  typhus  through  its  crowded 
school-room  and  dormitory,  and  ere  May 
arrived,  transformed  the  seminary  into  a 
hospital." 

Into  all  of  Patrick  Bronte's  children 
something  of  the  moorland  character  seems 
to  have  entered.  Their  note  of  wildness 
is  in  all,  their  note  of  stern  silence,  their 
aloofness.  There  is  no  "  dying  "  tragedy 
in  literature  to  surpass  the  slow  indomitable 
decline  of  Emily  Bronte,  fearless,  silent, 
almost  unnaturally  implacable  to  the  end. 

IV  177  M 


The  Bronte  Country 

Even  the  gentle  Anne  shared  this  in- 
domitableness  so  characteristic  of  the  whole 
family.  Crude  in  knowledge  of  life  and 
crude  in  art  as  is  The  Tenant  of  Wildfell 
Hall,  it  was  a  heroic  moral  effort  on  the 
part  of  a  sensitive  and  shrinking  nature  to 
depict  what  was,  to  that  delicate  self,  in 
the  last  degree  painful  and  indeed  repulsive. 
It  is  said  that  some  of  frail  physique  will 
endure  the  mental  and  bodily  torture  of 
surgical  operation  far  better  than  the  more 
robust,  and  it  has  always  seemed  to  me 
that  Anne  Bronte,  in  this  pitiful  and,  it 
must  be  added,  intolerably  weary  and 
superfluous  fictitious  rendering  of  the  sordid 
tragedy  of  Branwell  Bronte's  life,  showed 
the  same  dauntless  courage  as  made  Bran- 
well  die  standing ;  as  made  Emily  refuse 
all  comfort  or  aid  when  day  by  day  Death 
plucked  at  the  tearing  strings  of  her  life ; 
as  enabled  Charlotte  to  endure  in  noble 
patience  when,  at  Emily's  death  following 
Bran  well's,  and  at  Anne's  following  Emily's, 
and  at  her  own  failing  health  and  broken 
hopes,  and,  above  all,  bitter  suffering 
through  her  father's  savage  derision  and 
driving  away  of  the  one  lover  to  whom  her 
own  heart  turned,  that  too  familiar  "  horror 
of  great  darkness  fell  upon  me." 
178 


The  Bronte  Country 

The  proud  aloofness,  the  almost  arrogant 
independence,  so  characteristic  of  the  moor- 
landers,  was  seen  to  the  full  in  the  Bronte 
family,  and  stands  revealed  in  their  published 
writings  and  letters.  A  single  instance  of 
an  ordinary  kind  will  suffice.  Here  is 
one,  from  Charlotte's  correspondence  in 
the  spring  of  1850,  shortly  after  her  return 
from  London  subsequent  to  the  publication 
of  Shirley : 

"  I  believe  I  should  have  written  to  you 
before,  but  I  don't  know  what  heaviness 
of  spirit  has  beset  me  of  late,  made  my 
faculties  dull,  made  rest  weariness,  and 
occupation  burdensome.  Now  and  then 
the  silence  of  the  house,  the  solitude  of  the 
room,  has  pressed  on  me  with  a  weight  I 
found  it  difficult  to  bear,  and  recollection 
has  not  failed  to  be  as  alert,  poignant, 
obtrusive,  as  other  feelings  were  languid. 
I  attribute  this  state  of  things  partly  to  the 
weather.  ...  I  have  ere  this  been  warned 
of  approaching  disturbance  in  the  atmo- 
sphere by  a  sense  of  bodily  weakness,  and 
deep,  heavy  mental  sadness,  which  some 
would  call  presentiment.  Presentiment  in- 
deed it  is,  but  not  at  all  supernatural.  .  .  . 
I  have  had  no  letters  from  London  for  a 
179 


The  Bronte  Country 

long  time,  and  am  very  much  ashamed 
of  myself  to  find,  now  that  that  stimulus 
is  withdrawn,  how  dependent  upon  it  I  had 
become.  I  cannot  help  feeling  something 
of  the  excitement  of  expectation  till  post- 
hour  comes,  and  when  day  after  day  it 
brings  nothing  I  get  low.  This  is  a  stupid, 
disgraceful,  unmeaning  state  of  things. 
I  feel  bitterly  enraged  at  my  own  de- 
pendence and  folly.  However,  I  shall  con- 
tend against  the  idiocy.  ...  I  had 

rather  a  foolish  letter  from  Miss  the 

other  day.  Some  things  in  it  nettled  me, 
especially  an  unnecessarily  earnest  assurance 
that  in  spite  of  all  I  had  gone  and  done  in 
the  writing  line  I  still  retained  a  place  in  her 
esteem.  My  answer  took  strong  and  high 
ground  at  once.  I  said  I  had  been  troubled 
by  no  doubts  on  the  subject,  that  I  neither 
did  myself  nor  her  the  injustice  to  suppose 
there  was  anything  in  what  I  had  written 
to  incur  the  just  forfeiture  of  esteem. 
I  was  aware,  I  intimated,  that  some  persons 
thought  proper  to  take  exceptions  at  Jane 
Eyre,  and  that  for  their  own  sakes  I  was 
sorry,  as  I  invariably  found  them  in- 
dividuals in  whom  the  animal  largely 
predominated  over  the  intellectual,  persons 
by  nature  coarse,  by  inclination  sensual, 
180 


The  Bronte  Country 

whatever  they  might  be  by  education  and 
principle." 

Nor  was  Charlotte  ever  to  be  won  by 

presumption    or    flattery.     In    that    lonely 

Ha  worth  parsonage,  where  in  their  childhood 

she  and  Emily  and  Anne,  and  Bran  well  too 

in  his  own  irregular  way,  as  again  in  youth 

and  maturity,  had  written  so  much  and  so 

significantly    achieved,    she   ever   preferred 

her  obscurity  and  isolation.     Had  she  been 

able,  with  due  regard  to  herself  and  others, 

to    maintain    an    absolute    isolation    from 

Currer  Bell  and  that  mysterious  individual's 

writings,  I  do  not  doubt  she  would  have 

so   decided.     To   many,    perhaps   to   most 

people,  this  has  ever  seemed,  and  seems  a 

foolish   and   illogical   attitude.     There   are, 

nevertheless,  a  few  writers  who  share  with 

Charlotte    Bronte    the    deep    desire    to    be 

left  alone  in  their  private  life,  and  to  be 

known  and  judged  solely  by  their  writings, 

irrespective    of    "  the    personal    equation," 

of   sex,   or  circumstance.     "  Of  late,"   she 

writes  on  one  occasion,  "  I  have  had  many 

letters  to  answer  ;  and  some  very  bothering 

ones  from  people  who  want  opinions  about 

their  books,   who  seek  acquaintance,   and 

who  flatter  to  get  it  ;    people  who  utterly 

181 


The  Bronte  Country 

mistake  all  about  me.  They  are  most 
difficult  to  answer,  put  off,  and  appease, 
without  offending ;  for  such  characters 
are  excessively  touchy,  and  when  affronted 
turn  malignant.  Their  books  are  too  often 
deplorable."  There  were  fewer  books — 
deplorable  and  other — and  fewer  autograph  - 
scribes  and  would-be  interviewers,  in  the 
Haworth  days  :  did  Charlotte  Bronte  write 
to-day  she  would  probably,  being  Charlotte 
Bronte,  take  still  "  higher  and  stronger 
ground." 

What  a  wonderful  family,  this  Bronte 
clan  !  One  wonders — so  potent  was  the 
strain  transmitted  to  each  of  Patrick 
Bronte's  children — if  the  two  elder  sisters, 
Maria  and  Elizabeth,  had  lived  to  woman- 
hood, what  they  too  would  have  achieved. 
Certainly  the  elder,  at  any  rate,  showed 
herself  in  her  short  life  "  a  true  Bronte  "— 
"  a  true  Prunty  "  might  have  been  the 
more  exact  phrase,  if  Dr.  J.  A.  Erskine 
Stuart,  the  latest  and  most  thorough  in- 
quirer into  the  subject,  had  not  all  but 
conclusively  shown  that  the  Rev.  Patrick 
Bronte  and  his  family  had  never  been 
known  as  "  Prunty "  in  County  Down. 
Imagine  for  a  moment  if  the  Shakespeare 
family  had  been  as  united  in  genius  as  that 
182 


The  Bronte  Country 

of  the  Brontes,  imagine  the  torch -flame  at 
the  close  of  the  sixteenth  century  !  But 
neither  Shakespeare's  sister,  Joan  Hart, 
nor  his  daughter,  Susanna  Hall,  nor  Judith 
(who  became  Mistress  Thomas  Quiney  in 
her  thirty-first  year,  a  month  before  her 
father's  death),  can  for  a  moment  wear  the 
steady  light  of  Charlotte  Bronte  or  the 
tragic  flare  of  Emily  or  the  mild  glow  of 
Anne.  As  for  Hamnet,  Shakespeare's  son, 
he  died  long  before  he  could  emulate 
either  the  youthful  vices  or  other  wandering 
fires  which,  later,  were  the  death-lights  of 
Bran  well. 

But  to  the  Bronte  country.  Where  is 
really  the  literary  geography  we  associate 
with  this  name  ?  It  is  not  only  around 
Haworth,  of  course,  though  that  bleak 
place  is  its  heart,  because  of  all  lived  and 
suffered  and  done  there,  of  so  many  ambitions 
and  hopes  come  to  naught  there,  of  so  much 
there  achieved,  of  all  the  passion  and 
energy  of  five  strenuous  lives  confined  to 
this  bare,  unattractive  house,  restricted  to 
these  horizon-meeting  moors.  Roughly,  it 
may  be  said  to  extend  from  Thornton,  four 
miles  to  the  west  of  Bradford,  to  Scar- 
borough on  the  eastern  sea.  At  the  one, 
Branwell  Bronte  and  three  of  his  sisters 

183 


The  Bronte  Country 

were  born  ;  at  the  other,  and  at  Filey, 
Charlotte  knew  some  of  the  darkest  (and 
yet  for  literature  some  of  the  most  memor- 
able) hours  of  her  life — days,  too,  of  con- 
solation and  peace,  days  wherein  Villette 
matured ;  and  here,  too,  Emily  came 
when  nearing  death,  and  here  Anne  died, 
and  rests. 

Thornton  is  certainly  worth  a  visit 
for  any  who  would  trace  and  imaginatively 
re-live  the  experiences  of  the  Bronte  sisters. 
It  is  easily  reached  by  tram  from  Bradford, 
of  which  it  is  indeed  practically  a  part- 
in  fact,  Thornton  and  Haworth  can  now 
both  be  visited  easily  in  the  space  of  a 
day,  from  and  back  to  Haworth  :  though, 
almost  needless  to  say,  that  is  not  the  way 
to  make  the  pilgrimage,  nor  any  other  of 
the  kind. 

Charlotte  and  Emily  were  too  young, 
when  their  father  and  his  family  of  six 
moved  from  Thornton  parsonage  across 
the  upland  region  between  it  and  Haworth, 
to  "leave  us  any  literary  association  of  direct 
experience  in  connection  with  this  thriving 
little  town — in  the  Rev.  Patrick's  day  a 
more  hamlet  of  some  fifty  scattered  cottages. 
It  is  not  of  much  interest  to  look  at  a 
house  where  a  noted  person  was  born,  unless 
184 


The  Bronte  Country 

thinking  and  significant  experience  began 
there,  or  events  of  import  occurred.  Pil- 
grims do  go  to  visit  the  Old  Bell  Chapel 
(or  what  is  left  of  it)  ;  but  why,  it  is  a 
little  difficult  to  understand.  There's  an 
inscription  : — "  This  chapel  was  beautified, 
1818.  P.  Bronte,  incumbent."  This  might 
more  appropriately  have  been  adapted  for 
an  inscription  at  Haworth  :  "  This  house 
is  beautified  because  of  the  genius  of  Char- 
lotte and  Emily  Bronte." 

In  other  respects  times  have  not  changed 
much.  The  old  vehement  note  of  religious 
bigotry  is  still  emphatic  in  these  regions 
of  the  West  Riding.  Not  that  bigotry  is 
worse  there  than  elsewhere.  The  Cornish 
Ply  mouth -Brother,  the  Welsh  Methodist, 
the  Highland  Free -Churchman  might  even 
consider  the  Haworth  variety  lax.  But 
in  the  Rev.  Patrick  Bronte's  day  it  was 
rigorous  indeed.  Dr.  J.  A.  Erskine  Stuart 
tells  an  anecdote  sufficiently  illustrative. 
One  Sunday  morning  Mr.  Bronte  was 
descried  at  his  bedroom  window  apparently 
in  the  dire  act  of  shaving.  A  spiritual 
volcano  shook  Thornton.  The  incumbent 
was  approached,  and  upbraided.  The 
amazing  thing  is  that  a  man  of  so  violent 
and  often  uncontrollable  temper  did  not 

185 


The  Bronte  Country 

by  word  or  action  show  his  contemptuous 
indignation  :  there  could  be  no  more 
convincing  comment  on  the  bitter  religiosity 
of  the  period  than  the  fact  that  he  earnestly 
explained  to  a  member  of  his  congregation  : 
"  I  never  shaved  in  all  my  life,  or  was  ever 
shaved  by  any  one  else.  I  have  so  little 
beard  that  a  little  clipping  every  three 
months  is  all  that  is  necessary."  Ah,  that 
was  in  1820  :  such  things  do  not  happen 
now.  Perhaps.  A  few  years  ago  a  Glasgow 
minister  was  seriously  reproved  by  his 
elders  because,  in  order  to  reach  his  church 
in  time  to  conduct  the  service,  he  (having 
suddenly  been  summoned  to  the  side  of  a 
dying  parishioner,  and  so  having  left  him- 
self no  time  to  walk  to  the  chuich)  took  a 
cab.  This  summer  a  friend  of  the  writer 
was  in  Ross,  and  told  him  that  in  a  par- 
ticular parish  three  members  of  the  Free 
Kirk  congregation  were  "  refused  the 
tokens  "  (i.e.  prohibited  from  public  par- 
ticipation in  the  Communion)  for  no  other 
reason  than  that,  during  a  holiday  abroad, 
"they  had  stayed  too  long  in  Paris  !  " 

The  best  way  to  see  the  Bronte  country, 

the  country  of  Jane  Eyre  and  Shirley  and 

Wuthering  Heights,  is  to  view  it  afoot,  and 

to   start   from   Thornton,   either   direct   or 

186 


The  Bronte  Country 

by  a  detour  to  visit  Cowan  Bridge,  a  charm- 
ing neighbourhood,  though  associated  with 
no  little  suffering  on  the  part  of  the  Bronte 
girls,  and  especially  Charlotte.  Mrs.  Gas- 
kell's  description  is  due  either  to  the 
disillusioning  effect  of  a  visit  in  dull  or  wet 
weather  at  the  wrong  season,  or  to  pre- 
judice derived  from  passages  in  Charlotte's 
writings,  letters,  or  conversation. 

Perhaps  the  thing  best  worth  remember- 
ing in  Charlotte's  childhood  is  the  anecdote 
(by  at  least  one  biographer  "  located  "  at 
Thornton)  to  be  found  in  the  third  chapter 
of  Sir  Wemyss  Reid's  delightful  and  sym- 
pathetic memoir,  where,  and  with  obvious 
exactitude,  he  says  the  Bronte  family  were 
already  at  Haworth  : 

"  There  is  a  touching  story  of  Charlotte 
at  six  years  old,  which  gives  us  some  notion 
of  the  ideal  life  led  by  the  forlorn  little 
girl  at  this  time,  when,  her  two  elder  sisters 
having  been  sent  to  school,  she  found 
herself  living  at  home,  the  eldest  of  the 
motherless  brood.  She  had  read  The 
Pilgrim's  Progress,  and  had  been  fascinated, 
young  as  she  was,  by  that  wondrous 
allegory.  Everything  in  it  was  to  her  true 
and  real :  her  little  heart  had  gone  forth 


The  Bronte  Country 

with  Christian  on  his  pilgrimage  to  the 
Golden  City,  her  bright  young  mind  had 
been  fired  by  the  Bedford  tinker's  descrip- 
tion of  the  glories  of  the  Celestial  Place  ; 
and  she  made  up  her  mind  that  she  too 
would  escape  from  the  City  of  Destruction, 
and  gain  the  haven  towards  which  the 
weary  spirits  of  every  age  have  turned  with 
eager  longing.  But  where  was  this  glitter- 
ing city,  with  its  streets  of  gold,  its  gates 
of  pearl,  its  walls  of  precious  stones,  its 
streams  of  life  and  throne  of  light  ?  Poor 
little  girl  !  The  only  place  which  seemed 
to  her  to  answer  Bunyan's  description  of 
the  celestial  town  was  one  which  she  had 
heard  the  servants  discussing  with  en- 
thusiasm in  the  kitchen,  and  its  name  was 
Bradford  !  So  to  Bradford  little  Charlotte 
Bronte,  escaping  from  that  Haworth  Par- 
sonage which  she  believed  to  be  a  doomed 
spot,  set  off  one  day  in  1822.  Ingenious 
persons  may  speculate  if  they  please  upon 
the  sore  disappointment  which  awaited 
her  when,  like  older  people,  reaching  the 
place  which  she  had  imagined  to  be  Heaven, 
she  found  that  it  was  only  Bradford.  But 
she  never  even  reached  her  imaginary 
Golden  City.  When  her  tender  feet  had 
carried  her  a  mile  along  the  road,  she  came 
1 88 


The  Bronte  Country 

to  a  spot  where  overhanging  trees  made  the 
highway  dark  and  gloomy  ;  she  imagined 
that  she  had  come  to  the  Valley  of  the 
Shadow  of  Death,  and,  fearing  to  go  forward, 
was  presently  discovered  by  her  nurse 
cowering  by  the  roadside." 

The  country  between  Thornton  and 
Denholme,  a  slow  ascent  of  about  two  miles, 
is  dreary  at  all  times  save  on  a  radiant  day 
of  spring,  when  every  ditch  is  a  glory,  and 
the  birds  sing  as  though  truly  birds  of 
Paradise.  From  waste -land  Denholme  to 
low-lying  Potovens  farm,  and  thence  across 
a  lonely  and  fascinating  expanse  of  true 
moorland,  the  wayfarer  (following  the  track 
of  the  Bronte  family  on  their  laborious 
migration,  in  1820,  from  their  first  Yorkshire 
home  across  Thornton  Heights)  will  pass 
Old  Allen,  Flappit  Spring,  and  Braemoor, 
and  will  come  at  last  upon  Worth  Valley, 
from  which,  by  a  steep  street,  Haworth 
climbs  and  lies  like  an  exhausted  lizard 
along  the  summit.  As  the  comparison  has 
struck  several  observers,  it  is  no  fanciful 
image. 

Cowan  Bridge,  it  may  be  added,  is  not  on 
the    Bradford    high    road.     It    lies    near 
Kirkby  Lorisdale,  on  the  Leeds  and  Kendal 
189 


The  Bronte  Country 

road  ;  and  can  most  easily  be  reached  by 
the  cyclist  via  Keighley  or  Skipton.  Thence 
on  to  Giggles  wick  and  Ingleton,  below 
the  vast  and  bare  rise  of  Ingleborough,  till 
the  banks  of  the  little  Leek  are  reached 
and  Cowan  Bridge  is  seen  at  the  entrance 
to  the  pleasant  valley  of  the  Lune.  Later, 
Charlotte  went  to  Roe  Head  School,  on 
the  Leeds  and  Huddersfield  road,  and 
here  we  are  in  the  heart  of  the  Bronte 
country,  and  pre-eminently  of  the  country 
of  Shirley. 

If  one  had  to  choose  any  single  tract  at 
once  for  its  own  beauty  and  charm  and  its 
literary  association,  it  might  be  that  de- 
lightful reach  of  upland  from  Cowan  Bridge 
to  Tunstall,  with  its  fine  old  battlemented 
church,  where  both  Charlotte  and  Emily 
often  worshipped,  and  its  lonely  ruin  of 
Thurland.  Though  not  true  moorland,  it 
is  a  lovely  country — a  windy,  grassy,  tree- 
enlivened  region  such  as  the  author  of 
Wuthering  Heights  had  her  joy  in. 

But  it  is  not  the  Ha  worth  region,  or  the 
wider  regions  of  Jane  Eyre  and  Shirley, 
that  is  exclusively  the  Bronte  country.  It 
is  there  the  two  most  famous  of  a  truly 
remarkable  family  lived  from  childhood 
and  wrote  their  books  and  spent  the  greater 
190 


The  Bronte  Country 

part  of  their  days.  But  the  greater  had 
a  genius  which  won  other  dominions. 

No  lover  of  Villette  would  think  of  ex- 
cluding London  from  the  country  of  Char- 
lotte Bronte.  In  a  sense  she  made  London 
uniquely  her  own  on  that  night  when 
Lucy  Snowe  for  the  first  time  slept  in  the 
great  city — alone,  friendless,  aimless,  un- 
knowing even  in  what  neighbourhood  she 
was.  "  I  wet  the  pillow,  my  arms,  and 
my  hair,  with  rushing  tears.  A  dark 
interval  of  most  bitter  thought  followed 
this  burst  [  .  .  .  till  at  last  I  became 
sufficiently  tranquil.  .  .  .  ]  I  had  just  ex- 
tinguished my  candle  and  lain  down,  when 
a  deep,  low,  mighty  tone  swung  through 
the  night.  At  first  I  knew  it  not  ;  but  it 
was  uttered  twelve  times,  and  at  the  twelfth 
colossal  hum  and  trembling  knell,  I  said  : 
' 1  lie  in  the  shadow  of  St.  Paul's.'  " 

The  secret  spell  of  London  is  there,  more 
than  in  any  elaborate  phrasing  of  emotion 
and  effect.  How  admirable,  too,  the  re- 
ticence and  the  veracity  of  the  brief  account 
of  her  first  impressions  on  that  wet  February 
night  when,  after  a  fifty  mile  run,  the  North 
coach  left  her  at  the  old  inn  by  Ludgate 
Hill !  "  My  reader,  I  know,  is  one  who 
would  not  thank  me  for  an  elaborate 
191 


The  Bronte  Country 

reproduction  of  poetic  first  impressions  ; 
and  it  is  well,  inasmuch  as  I  had  neither 
time  nor  mood  to  cherish  such  ;  arriving 
as  I  did  late,  on  a  dark,  raw,  and  rainy 
evening,  in  a  Bablyon  and  a  wilderness, 
of  which  the  vastness  and  the  strange- 
ness tried  to  the  utmost  any  powers  of 
clear  thought  and  steady  self-possession 
with  which,  in  the  absence  of  more 
brilliant  faculties,  Nature  might  have 
gifted  me. 

"  When  I  left  the  coach,  the  strange  speech 
of  the  cabmen  and  others  waiting  round 
seemed  to  me  odd  as  a  foreign  tongue.  .  .  . 
How  difficult,  how  oppressive,  how  puzzling 
seemed  my  flight  !  In  London  for  the 
first  time  ;  at  an  inn  for  the  first  time  ; 
tired  with  travelling  ;  confused  with  dark- 
ness ;  palsied  with  cold  ;  unfurnished  with 
either  experience  or  advice  to  tell  me  how 
to  act,  and  yet  ...  to  act  obliged." 

After  that,  the  deep  colossal  boom  of 
the  great  cathedral's  bell,  and  "I  lie  in  the 
shadow  of  St.  Paul's,"  come  as  with  the 
sound  of  solemn  benediction. 

That    first   night    of    London,    Charlotte 

Bronte,  as  Lucy  Snowe,  has  made  her  own. 

With  the  same  powerful  reserve  she  etches 

for   us   impressions   of   the   first   morning  : 

192 


The  Bronte  Country 

"  The  next  day  was  the  first  of  March,  and 
when  I  awoke,  rose,  and  opened  my  curtain, 
I  saw  the  risen  sun  struggling  through  fog. 
Above  my  head,  above  the  housetops, 
co -elevate  almost  with  the  clouds,  1  saw 
a  solemn,  orbed  mass,  dark  blue  and  dim — 
THE  DOME.  While  I  looked,  my  inner  self 
moved ;  my  spirit  shook  its  always  - 
fettered  wings  half  loose  ;  I  had  a  sudden 
feeling  as  if  I,  who  never  yet  truly  lived, 
were  at  last  about  to  taste  life.  In  that 
morning  my  soul  grew  as  fast  as  Jonah's 
gourd." 

In  truth,  this  first  experience  of  London 
is  that  of  an  innumerable  company  of  brave 
and  fine  youths  and  girls  who,  in  hope  or 
despair,  come  up  alone  to  this  Metropolis 
of  Hopes  and  Despairs.  It  is  not  that 
of  Lucy  Snowe  only,  child  of  genius,  but 
of  her  obscure  brothers  and  sisters  of  actual 
life.  Of  these,  many  have  come  with 
literary  aspirations,  with  young  hearts  astir 
with  the  foam  of  enthusiasm  for  names  and 
places  sacred  by  cherished  associations. 
What  young  dreamer  of  literary  fame  has 
not  thrilled  when,  knowingly  or  unknow- 
ingly, he  has  for  the  first  time  found 
himself  suddenly  in  Paternoster  Row  ?  But 
let  Lucy  Snowe  stand  for  all  of  us  :  her 

iv  193  N 


The  Bronte  Country 

London -at -first -sight  is  that  of  the  obscure 
many : 

"Having  breakfasted,  out  I  went.  Ela- 
tion and  pleasure  were  in  my  heart  :  to 
walk  alone  in  London  seemed  of  itself  an 
adventure.  Presently  I  found  myself  in 
Paternoster  Row — classic  ground  this.  I 
entered  a  bookseller's  shop,  kept  by  one 
Jones  ;  I  bought  a  little  book — a  piece 
of  extravagance  I  could  ill  afford.  .  .  . 
Mr.  Jones,  a  dried-in  man  of  business,  stood 
behind  his  desk  :  he  seemed  one  of  the 
greatest,  and  I  one  of  the  happiest  of  beings. 

"  Prodigious  was  the  amount  of  life  I 
lived  that  morning.  Finding  myself  before 
St.  Paul's,  I  went  in  ;  I  mounted  to  the 
dome  ;  I  saw  thence  London,  with  its 
river,  and  its  bridges,  and  its  churches  ; 
I  saw  antique  Westminster,  and  the  green 
Temple  gardens,  with  sun  upon  them, 
and  a  glad  blue  sky  of  early  spring  above, 
and  between  them  and  it,  not  too  dense,  a 
cloud  of  haze. 

."  Descending,  I  went  wandering  whither 
chance  might  lead,  in  a  still  ecstasy  of 
freedom  and  enjoyment  ;  and  I  got — I 
know  not  how — I  got  into  the  heart  of  city 
life.  I  saw  and  felt  London  at  last  :  I 
194 


The  Bronte  Country 

got  into  the  Strand  ;  I  went  up  Cornhill  ; 
I  mixed  with  the  life  passing  along  ;  I 
dared  the  perils  of  crossings.  To  do  this, 
and  to  do  it  utterly  alone,  gave  me,  perhaps 
an  irrational,  but  a  real  pleasure.  Since 
those  days  I  have  seen  the  West  End,  the 
parks,  the  fine  squares  ;  but  I  love  the 
city  far  better.  The  city  seems  so  much 
more  in  earnest  :  its  business,  its  rush,  its 
roar,  are  such  serious  things,  sights,  and 
sounds.  The  city  is  getting  its  living — 
the  West  End  but  enjoying  its  pleasure. 
At  the  West  End  you  may  be  amused, 
but  in  the  city  you  are  deeply  excited." 

Both  in  its  vividness  and  in  its  crudeness 
that  stands  for  a  multitude. 

As  for  that  wonderful  tiny  etching  of  the 
Thames  by  night,  which  stands  out  in  this 
famous  "  London "  chapter  of  Villette,  it 
is  as  unforgettable  as  anything  in  Bleak 
House  or  Great  Expectations  ;  as  "  brazed 
and  imperishable  "  as  that  horrible  stew- 
ardess on  board  the  Vivid,  who  made  poor 
Lucy's  first  night  on  the  river  so  miserable. 
And  what  a  touch  of  the  real  Charlotte 
Bronte — of  the  whole  fearless,  indomitable 
Bronte  clan,  from  the  upright  and  intolerant 
and  sometimes  all  but  intolerable  incumbent 
195 


The  Bronte  Country 

of  Haworth,  to  the  broken  Branwell,  un- 
worthy brother  of  the  dauntless  Charlotte 
and  the  heroic  Emily,  who,  despite  all  his 
sins  and  weakness,  had  yet  strength  to 
defy  nature  and  die  standing — in  the  last 
words  of  this  passage  : 

"  Down  the  sable  flood  we  glided  ;  I 
thought  of  the  Styx,  and  of  Charon  rowing 
some  solitary  soul  to  the  Land  of  Shades. 
Amidst  the  strange  scene,  with  a  chilly 
wind  blowing  in  my  face  and  midnight 
clouds  dropping  rain  above  my  head  ;  with 
two  rude  rowers  for  companions,  whose 
insane  oaths  still  tortured  my  ear,  I  asked 
myself  if  I  was  wretched  or  terrified.  I  was 
neither." 

Then  is  not  Brussels  for  ever  associated 
with  Villette.  .  .  .  surely  the  greatest  and 
most  enduring  of  all  the  Bronte  books  ? 

My  own  last  sojourn  in  the  Bronte 
country  was  on  a  day  of  autumnal  beauty, 
a  day  so  serene  amid  so  great  a  richness 
of  earth-born  purple  and  suspended  rose 
and  azure,  that  it  almost  reached  unrest 
because  of  its  radiant  but  poignant  peace. 
It  was  at  lonely  Tunstall,  under  the  shadow 
of  the  time -blackened  walls  of  Thurland, 
and  I  was  thinking,  not  of  the  elder  and 
196 


The  Bronte  Country 

greater  sister,  but  of  that  stormier,  less 
controlled,  less  mature  spirit  who,  from 
what  all  students  of  life  would  call  an  im- 
possible basis,  and  with  architecture  and 
ornament  justly  condemnable  as  unreal  or 
trivial,  reared  in  Withering  Heights  one  of 
the  great  edifices  in  the  realms  of  the 
imagination.  But,  as  I  rose  to  leave, 
and  gave  one  farewell  glance  at  the  glowing 
solitudes  beyond,  the  words  that  suddenly 
came  upon  me  in  a  vivid  remembrance  were 
of  the  more  powerful  and  steadfast  genius 
of  the  author  of  Villette — Villette,  whose 
very  name  sounded  so  remote,  here  in  this 
silent  Westmorland  upland.  But  they  fitted 
the  hour,  the  place,  and  the  mood. 


197 


THE  THAMES  FROM  OXFORD  TO 
THE  NORE 

THE  literary  geography  of  the  Thames  ! 
Is  not  this  a  more  hazardous  undertaking 
than  would  be  an  itinerary  of  the  Lake 
Country,  or  of  that  which  follows  on  the 
long  waters  of  Geneva  ?  For  who  could 
number  the  many  who  have  written  about, 
or  sung  of,  or  dwelt  beside,  or  had  some 
abiding  association  with,  our  great  river — 
even  if  only  unwilling  baptism  such  as  befell 
Mr.  Verdant  Green,  or  such  undignified 
immersion  as  was  the  damp  fate  of  Sir 
John  Falstaff  when,  his  huge  bulk  secured 
in  the  buck -basket,  he  was  so  ignominiously 
chucked  into  the  deep  flood  by  Datchet 
Mead  ?  Since  Chaucer  crossed  "  Thamesis  " 
in  the  Tower  ferry,  or  Shakespeare  recrossed 
from  Southwark  to  the  reedy  shore  of  silt 
and  mud  known  as  the  Strand,  till  Samuel 
Pepys  "  took  barge "  (with  pretty  Mrs. 
Manuel  singing  all  the  way)  to  visit  friends 
by  the  sequestered  and  rural  hamlet  of 
Putney,  what  a  far  cry  !  What  a  far  cry, 
198 


The  Thames  from  Oxford  to  the  Nore 

again,    till,    in    Gravesend    Reach,    David 
Copperfield  says  good-bye  to  Peggotty  and 
Mrs.  Gummidge  ...  or,  on  another  occa- 
sion, Mr.  Micawber  and  the  twins  pass  from 
our    ken  ...  or    till    Mr.    William    Black 
entertains  us  with  his  house -boat  on  the 
upper    reaches  ;     or    till    we    see    William 
Morris,    walking    Hammersmith    riverside 
in    swift    twilight    travellings,    as    though 
to   overtake   some    caravan   beyond   price, 
pondering   ideal   Thames   scenes    (alas,   re- 
moter now  even  than  then,  for  the  desecra- 
tion of  the  jerry -builder  is  now  on  every 
wayside)  to  be  limned  in  A  Dream  of  John 
Ball,   or  in  News  from  Nowhere  ;    or  till, 
in  a  roomy  old  boat  on  the  upper  waters 
below    Kelmscott    Manor,    near    Lechlade, 
we  have  a  glimpse  of  Rossetti  writing  part 
at  least  of  his  lovely  Stream's  Secret ;    or 
till,  "  by  still  Isis,"  Matthew  Arnold  wanders, 
conning  the  stanzas  of  The  Scholar  Gypsy,  .  .  . 
in  a  word,  from  Chaucer  to  Milton,  from 
Milton  to  Shelley,  from  Shelley  to  the  latest 
true  poet  of  the  Thames,  Mr.  Robert  Bridges, 
what  a  catalogue  of  sounding  names  ! 

That    way,    however,    lies    the    scribe's 

dilemma.     He    must    either    strive    to    be 

inclusive    (an    impossibility    in    a    volume, 

even,    for     some    industrious    idler    would 

199 


The  Thames  from  Oxford  to  the  Nore 

always  pounce  upon  something  or  some- 
body forgotten)  and  therefore  relapse  into 
a  graceless  chronicle — as  though  one  were 
to  describe  the  National  Gallery  by  a 
transcription  from  the  catalogue  of  the 
names  and  birth-and-date  particulars  of  all 
the  artists  represented  ;  or  else  he  must 
deal  so  fragmentarily  with  a  multifarious 
theme  as  to  disappoint  the  reader  who 
wants  Thames  statistics,  or  exasperate  those 
who  desire  all  the  respectable  old  "  tags  " 
to  be  trotted  out  in  good  guide-book  order. 
And  there  are  some  whom  in  any  case  it 
would  be  impossible  to  satisfy  ...  as  that 
inquirer  who  wondered  if  Pope's  Villa  at 
Twickenham  had  ever  been  temporarily 
occupied  by  a  Holy  Father  in  exile. 

As  nothing  is  to  be  gained  by  repetition 
of  the  hackneyed  chronicle  of  Thames -side 
associations  already  so  plentifully  extant, 
will  it  not  be  better  to  relinquish  any 
attempt  to  take  reach  by  reach,  parish  by 
parish,  village  or  town  by  town  or  village, 
'twixt  Gravesend  and  Oxford  ?  Books  of 
all  kinds,  dealing  with  the  subject — 
literary,  artistic,  dramatic,  political,  com- 
mercial, aquatic,  natural -historic,  botanic, 
and  scandalous — can  be  more  or  less  easily 
consulted.  There  is  the  voluminous  tome 
200 


The  Thames  from  Oxford  to  the  Nore 

of  Our  Royal  River,  with  its  letterpress  by 
several  able  "  Thamesters  "  and  many 
illustrations,  or  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall's  likewise 
bulky  and  venerable  "  stand-by  "  ;  there 
are  the  annual  cheap  volumes  of  Dickens' 
Dictionary  of  the  Thames,  and  half  a  dozen 
booklets  more  or  less  interesting  and  more  or 
less  trustworthy  issued  by  Penny  Steamboat 
Companies  or  other  enterprising  publishing 
firms  of  the  like  unconventional  kind. 
Between  the  gaudy  pamphlet  of  inconvenient 
shape  and  the  still  more  inconvenient  but 
delightful  edition-de-luxe  of  Our  Royal  River 
are  numberless  volumes,  represented  in 
fiction  by,  let  us  say,  Mr.  William  Black's 
Adventures  of  a  Houseboat,  and  in  pictorial 
art  (and  nothing  much  else  of  moment)  by 
pleasant  book-making  such  as  Mr.  Leslie's 
Painter's  Chronicle  or  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pennell's 
Stream  of  Pleasure. 

With  these,  and  Baedeker  and  the  local 
guide-books,  one  cannot  vie. 

I  propose,  therefore,  to  take  simply  a  rapid 
glance  along  the  great  watercourse,  from 
where  the  herons  rise  from  the  reeds  of 
of  ten -looping  Isis  to  where  the  seagulls 
scream  about  the  Nore  or  beat  up  against 
the  east  wind  from  the  bleak  estuary  shores 
where  the  gaunt  Reculvers  stand  like 
201 


The  Thames  from  Oxford  to  the  Nore 

wardens  of  the  Sea -Gate.  Thereafter,  to 
add  in  a  more  personal  fashion  some  notes 
concerning  two  or  three  great  names  not  yet 
exploited  by  the  rout  e-book  or  local  manual  ; 
trusting,  in  doing  so,  to  be  forgiven  the 
egotism  of  reminiscence  for  the  sake  of  the 
men  and  things  remembered,  and  for  the 
supplement  of  lesser -known  literary  associa- 
tions to  the  Literary  Geography  of  the 
Thames. 

But  just  a  word  first  about  the  river. 
No,  not  a  dithyramb.  Many  have  sung 
or  magniloquently  prosed  its  charms  and 
beauty,  and  at  all  seasons.  It  has  had 
laudation  at  every  turn,  from  the  Pool  or 
Wapping  Stairs  at  slimy  ebb  to  the  Bells 
of  Ouseley  in  odoriferous  drought,  when  a 
lamb  could  step  across  "  Thames'  onward- 
sweeping  silent  flood "  in  safety.  If  it 
can  allure  poetic  minds  then,  it  may  well 
do  so  at  happier  times  and  at  all  points. 
To  the  true  Thames -lover  there  is  hardly 
a  mile  of  it  that  has  not  its  abiding  spell. 
As  for  the  Thames -lover  who  is  also  a 
familiar,  has  he  not  all  the  lovely  and 
commonly  ignored  wintertide  to  delight  in  : 
the  time  when  the  forest -white  boughs  on 
eyot  and  hanger  are  lovely  in  their  still 
beauty,  and  when  in  the  backwaters  the 

202 


The  Thames  from  Oxford  to  the  Nore 

coots  shake  the  snow  like  dust  from  sprays 
of  alder  and  willow  ? 

Nor,  Reader,  shall  you  have  to  suffer 
from  timeworn  anecdotes  of  Pope  and 
Horace  Walpole  such  as  our  grandfathers 
endured  as  hoary  acquaintances  ;  nay, 
what  is  more  serious,  not  even  of  "Mr. 
Walton"— as  "Old  Izaak  "  was  recently 
named  by  an  allusive  reviewer.  What 
microbe  of  "  Nomenclatururia  "  is  it,  by 
the  way,  that  makes  some  people  invariably, 
in  allusion  to  Shakespeare  or  Ben  Jonson 
or  Izaak  Walton  or  Fitzgerald  or  Whitman, 
always  speak  of  "  The  Swan  of  Avon," 
"Rare  Ben,"  "Old  Izaak,"  "Old  Fitz," 
"Good  Old  Walt"?  However,  that's 
another  story,  as  Mr.  Kipling  would  say. 

As  for  one  aspect  of  the  Thames,  the 
poets,  from  Spenser  onwards,  have  been  as 
superbly  flattering  as  they  are  wont  to  be 
to  their  mistresses.  Never  trust  a  poet  about 
his  lady-love's  beauty  nor  about  the  sea  ; 
he  is  most  conscious  of  the  charms  of  each 
when  he  is  remote  from  either.  The  folk- 
lorist  of  the  future  may  take  this  as  a  wise 
saw  among  the  common  people  of  the 
Edwardian  epoch. 

That  aspect  is  the  illusion  conveyed  in 
the  familiar  epithet  silvery.  There  has  been 
203 


The  Thames  from  Oxford  to  the  Nore 

enough  epithetical  silver  lavished  on  the 
mud-saturated  flood  of  Thames  to  have 
exhausted  any  other  mint  than  that  ad- 
jacent to  the  Fount  of  Eternal  Ink.  We  love 
Spenser's  "  silver-streaming  Thames/'  and 
Herrick's  "  silver- f ooted  Thamesis  "  is  a  de- 
lightful image  ;  but  it  is  a  pity  that  when 
every  successive  Mr.  Brown  brings  out  a 
new  volume  of  sonnets,  or  every  successive 
Miss  Jones  a  new  effusion  of  "  miscellaneous 
pieces,"  there  should  not  be  some  variation 
in  this  metallic  cliche.  Besides,  it  isn't 
true.  The  rain  of  sunshine  and  the  ripple 
of  wind  would  make  the  sluice  of  a  maltster 
"  silvery."  Thames -water  ceases  from  such 
refinement  as  soon  as  Isis,  Churn,  Coin,  and 
Leach  have  travelled  from  the  Cots  wolds, 
and  speed  together  east  of  Oxford  en  route 
to  grasp  the  tired  hand  of  the  upreaching 
sea -tide  that  slips  under  Richmond  Hill  and 
wavers  and  falls  away  at  Teddington. 

Some  day,  perhaps,  a  new  Michael 
Dray  ton  or  Water -Poet  successor  to  Taylor 
will  attempt  the  epic  of  Thames,  as  the 
great  Provencal  poet  Mistral  has  achieved 
the  epic  of  the  Rhone.  He  will  have  to  sing 
also  the  beauty  and  charm  of  the  tributary 
waters  that  swell  its  flood,  from  pastoral 
Churn  to  the  moist  discharge  that  oozes 
204 


The  Thames  from  Oxford  to  the  Nore 

from  Medway  flats.  There  are  some  of  us 
who  love  the  Mole  and  the  Loddon,  the 
Kennet  and  the  Windrush  almost  as  we 
love  their  "  eternal  bourne."  Let  me,  as 
parenthesis,  remind  such  lovers  that  the 
Thames  is  not  really  entitled  to  the  royal  name 
till  it  reaches  Dorchester,  near  which  city  the 
Thame  joins  the  Isis -cum -Churn -cum -Coin  - 
cum -Leach  (or  Lech).  As  for  the  name  "Isis," 
the  old  idea  that  it  is  a  survival  of  Thamesis 
is  no  longer  admitted.  Learned  dwellers 
by  the  stream  which  laves  Oxford's 
meadows  tell  us  that  "  Isis  "  is  a  quasi - 
classical  form  of  "  Ouse."  It  is  at  least 
more  reasonable  than  Mr.  Verdant  Green's 
idea  that  it  had  something  to  do  with  the 
great  goddess  of  the  Egyptians. 

The  very  names  of  these  tributaries  and 
upper  reaches  and  backwaters,  how  they 
thrill  one,  at  a  distance,  in  remembrance  ! 
And  their  associations — especially  by  the 
banks  of  the  Cher  well,  and  the  Isis  meadows 
beyond  Oxford.  But  Oxford !  .  .  .  that 
would  require  an  article  to  itself,  merely  to 
enumerate  names.  It  is  a  task  not  to  be 
attempted.  Even  a  chronicle  of  modern 
days  is  impracticable.  But  all  lovers  of 
much  of  what  is  loveliest  in  our  Victorian 
literature  will  think  of  how  so  many  poets 
205 


The  Thames  from  Oxford  to  the  Nore 

walked  and  roamed  by  these  waters,  what 
vivid    impulses    arose    or    were    discussed 
within    sight    of    the    towers    of    Oxford. 
Here  was  Matthew  Arnold's  "  waterway  to 
Eden."    Here  the  two  young  undergradu- 
ates, William  Morris   and  Edward  Burne- 
Jones,  went  their  first  walk  with  a  young 
poet  and  painter  of  whom  they  had  heard 
much,    Dante    Gabriel    Rossetti — who   had 
come   to   Oxford   to   paint   those   strange, 
crude,    but    potently    new   and   significant 
frescoes  for  the    "  Union,"   which  became 
the    torch    that    set    on    fire    the    modern 
decorative  movement,  with  all  deeper  and 
beyond  what  the  phrase  carries.     Here  the 
youthful  Swinburne — "  the  man  who  knows 
the  Greek  dramatists  like  an  old  Athenian, 
and  has  hair  like  flame  blown  upon  by  the 
wind,"  as  a  contemporary  described  him — 
began,    in    his    swift,    impatient,    solitary 
walks,  the  first  working  out  in  poetic  drama 
of  the  tragical  history  of  Mary  Queen  of 
Scots.     Here    the    most    famous    of    the 
Masters  of  Balliol  was  fond  of  walking  with 
a  friend,  with  his  lips  sweet  with  honey  of 
old  wisdom,  and  his  eyes  alert  and  smiling 
at  the  aspect  of  young  and  unwise  life  on  the 
river -reaches.     Here  Walter  Pater  thought 
out  many  of  his  essays,  composed  many  of 
206 


The  Thames  from  Oxford  to  the  Nore 

those  sentences  of  amber  and  pale  gold 
which  link  the  flawless  chain  of  Marius 
the  Epicurean.  But  one  might  go  on  with 
name  after  name — and  besides,  we  are 
coming  near  the  cohort  of  the  living  ! 

"Spenser  and  Sir  John  Denham  and 
Pope  are  good  enough  as  literary  associa- 
tions," some  may  think.  Well,  for  those 
who  love  the  old  just  because  it  is  the  old, 
and  never  find  the  outworn  other  than  the 
pleasanter  for  being  threadbare  and  infirm 
with  age,  let  joy  be  had  where  it  can  be 
obtained.  For  all  the  great  authority  of 
Dryden,  who  considered  Sir  John's  Cooper 
Hill  then,  and  for  ever,  "  for  the  majesty 
of  its  style,  the  standard  of  exact  writing," 
one  degenerate  at  least  must  admit  that, 
except  as  a  sedative  on  a  day  of  dull  rain, 
when  no  riverine  exercise  is  to  be  enjoyed, 
the  famous  masterpiece  of  the  Caroline 
poet  is  a  most  deadly  weariness.  Every 
guide-book,  every  chronicler  of  "  A  Day  on 
the  River/'  "Up  the  Thames,"  "  Down  the 
Thames/' "  On  the  Thames,"  and  so  on  in  pre- 
positional accumulation,  alludes  at  more  or 
less  length,  and  with  more  or  less  ample  quo- 
tation, to  this  "great  English  poem  " — which 
probably  not  three  in  a  score  of  the  scribes 
alluded  to  have  ever  read.  Admittedly  the 
207 


The  Thames  from  Oxford  to  the  Nore 

finest  lines  in  Cooper's  Hill  are  those  of  a 
quatrain  added  after  years  of  recovery 
from  the  giant  effort  of  the  original  pro- 
duction. They  appear  to  have  won  the 
worshipful  regard  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
and  to  have  maintained  their  spell  till  the 
present  year  of  grace. 

O  could  I  flow  like  thee,  and  make  thy  stream 
My  great  example,  as  it  is  my  theme  ! 
Though  deep  yet  clear,  though  gentle  yet  not  dull, 
Strong  without  rage,  without  o'er  flowing  full. 

Excellent  commonplace,  and  kindly  good 
sense.  But  is  it  more  than  a  rhymed  copy- 
book tag  ?  As  for  its  flawlessness,  neither  Mr. 
Gilbert  nor  Mr.  Adrian  Ross,  these  past 
masters  in  modern  metrical  flights,  has  ever 
tried  to  join  in  wedlock  terminals  as  innocent 
of  rhyme  as  "  dull  "  and  "  full."  There  was 
(perhaps  is)  a  bard  of  minor  degree  of  whom 
Rossetti  would  never  hear  a  word  in  favour, 
because  in  actual  speech  as  well  as  in  his 
written  verse,  he  invariably  (being  Yorkshire  - 
bred,  1  expect)  pronounced  "  full "  and 
"  pull  "  and  "  push  "  as  though  rhyming 
to  "  hull  "  and  "  gull  "  and  "  hush."  As 
inconsequential,  perhaps,  as  Heine,  when 
he  delighted  in  a  graceless  acquaintance, 
whom  he  ever  recalled  with  a  glow  of 
208 


The  Thames  from  Oxford  to  the  Nore 

pleasure,  just  because  of  the  singular  way 
in  which  he  (or  she)  "  turned  over  !  "  the 
letter  r. 

Well,  'tis  a  far  cry  now,  back  to  Cooper's 
Hill — written,  it  is  strange  to  think,  within 
a  quarter  of  a  century  of  Shakespeare's 
death.  Nevertheless,  the  dweller  in 
Egham  and  its  neighbourhood,  both  on 
the  Surrey  bank  and  opposite,  will  find 
faithful  portraiture  in  the  "  harmonious 
numbers  "  of  this  famous  poem  : 

Though  sJiort,  yet  long,  of  gentle  ennui  full, 
Without  a  rival  picturesquely  dull  ! 

But  we  have  slipped  past  I  know  not  how 
many  miles,  "  without  o'erflowing  full  "  of 
literary  associations — and  have  not  even 
delayed  at  Great  Marlow,  with  its  memories 
of  Shelley,  where  the  young  poet,  afterwards 
to  become  so  great,  wrote  The  Revolt  of 
Islam,  and  pondered  how  best  to  assist  the 
Almighty  to  reconstitute  a  mismanaged 
universe.  Here  Shelley  spent  so  many 
happy  days,  sailing  far  up  or  down  the 
winding  river,  or  cloud-shadow  hunting, 
or  drifting  under  the  lower  trees  of  Cliveden 
woods,  which  "  Alastor "  loved  so  well, 
and  William  Morris  thought  of  indifferently 
as  "rather  artificial." 

IV  209  o 


The  Thames  from  Oxford  to  the  Nore 

I  remember  hearing,  but  cannot  recollect 
where  or  from  whom — possibly  Dr.  Furni- 
vall,  whose  father  lived  at  Great  Marlow, 
and  was  both  friend  and  physician  to  the 
young  poet — an  anecdote  of  Shelley  akin 
to  a  delightful  story  given  to  the  world  on 
the  authority  of  Mr.  Andrew  Carnegie. 
Two  fishermen  in  a  punt  were  drifting  down 
stream,  when  they  caught  sight  of  a  boat 
ahead  of  them,  with  a  slim  figure  crouching 
at  the  bows  and  staring  into  the  water  as 
though  spell-bound,  and  apparently  by 
horror  rather  than  by  piscatorial  frenzy. 
One  angler  thought  the  young  gentleman 
intended  suicide,  while  his  companion 
fancied  that  the  man's  transfixed  despair 
indicated  the  loss  of  his  flask.  But,  when 
they  came  close,  Shelley — for  it  was  he — 
answered  their  inquiry  blandly  to  the  effect 
that  he  was  simply  watching  his  own 
corpse,  as .  "  the  thing  in  the  water  "  un- 
questionably seemed  to  resemble  him  closely. 
The  two  anglers  did  not  wait  to  drag  "  the 
thing "  :  before  they  got  far,  they  saw 
Shelley  hoist  his  little  lateen  sail  and  go 
off  happily  and  imperturbably  before  the 
wind. 

However,  for  imperturbability,  the  story 
that  Mr.  Carnegie  is  fond  of  relating  to  his 
210 


The  Thames  from  Oxford  to  the  Nore 

friends  is  unsurpassable  in  kind.  An 
American  cyclist  was  skirting  the  shore  of  a 
solitary  Highland  loch,  and  noticed  a  boat 
in  which  was  a  man  languidly  examining  the 
depths  with  a  water -telescope.  Now  and 
again  he  would  pause  and  chat  with  a  friend 
who  sat  on  the  bank  reading  a  newspaper  ; 
or  he  would  lay  down  the  telescope  and  light 
his  pipe.  The  American,  who  had  dis- 
mounted, could  not  restrain  his  curiosity, 
and  at  last  asked  the  idler  on  the  bank, 
"  What  is  your  friend  looking  for  ? 
Oysters  ?  "  "  No,"  was  the  matter-of-fact 
reply — "  my  brother-in-law." 

Well,  we  must  leave  Great  Mar  low  and 
Shelley,  though  both  invite  to  tie-up  awhile 
in  beautiful  Maidenhead  Reach,  or  under 
Cliveden's  gigantic  green  shadow.  It  was 
here,  if  I  remember  aright,  that  the  poet  of 
revolution  and  social -reformation,  and  other 
-tions  and  -isms,  projected  that  ideal  marital 
union  whereto  the  consenting  parties  should 
be  not  two  but  three.  Alas,  we  have  fallen 
back  again  into  our  old  ways,  and  the 
Revolt  of  the  Married  Poet  is  still  in  esse 
an  unconstitutional  performance  !  As  has 
been  sagely  remarked,  moreover,  the  highest 
tides  of  feeling  do  not  visit  the  coasts  of 
triangular  alliances  !  Apropos,  if  any 
211 


The  Thames  from  Oxford  to  the  Nore 

reader  has  visited  or  should  visit  pleasant 
Bisham,  a  short  way  above  Great  Marlow, 
he  may  remember  or  newly  note  with 
gentle  pleasure  the  touching  tombstone  - 
lines  of  a  Mrs.  Hoby,  staunch  upholder  of 
the  good  old  doctrine  that  Marriage  is  not 
a  Failure  : 

Give  me,  O  God  !  a  husband  like  unto  Thomas, 
Or  else  restore  to  me  my  husband  Thomas. 

Hopeless,  alas,  to  attempt  even  the  most 
superficial  exploitation  of  the  Windsor 
neighbourhood.  One  place,  in  particular, 
however,  is  hallowed  ground.  At  Horton, 
near  Wraysbury,  on  the  Colne,  is  where 
Milton  lived  for  the  first  five  or  six  years 
of  his  fruitful  early  manhood  after  he  left 
Cambridge.  Here  he  wrote  that  supreme 
threnody  Lycidas,  here  also  he  wrote  Comus 
and  the  Arcades,  and  possibly  U Allegro 
and  //  Penseroso.  As  we  drift  down  Windsor 
way,  coming  from  Maidenhead,  or  whence 
westward  we  come,  many  must  recall  his  : 

Towers  and  battlements  .  .  . 
Bosom'd  high  in  tufted  trees. 

Then  Chertsey,  Hampton,  Laleham,  Datchet, 
with  associations  of  Cowley,  Garrick,  Dr. 
Arnold  of  Rugby,  Sir  Henry  Wotton  and 

212 


The  Thames  from  Oxford  to  the  Nore 

Izaak  Walton — places  recalled  at  random, 
with  names  recollected  at  hazard  :  but  what 
a  wealth  of  association  all  down  the  waterway 
of  this  region  of  our  love  and  pride  !  Above 
all,  when  Eton  meadows  and  the  elms  of 
Windsor  Park  come  into  view  .  .  .  who 
does  not  thrill  then  if  perchance  remember- 
ing that  here  some  three  hundred  years  ago 
(i.e.  in  1593) — because  of  the  Plague  in 
London — The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  was 
first  acted  before  Queen  Elizabeth  !  What 
would  one  give  to  see  that  woodland 
cavalcade  and  laughing  processional  array, 
with  Shakespeare,  it  may  be,  walking  by 
the  Queen's  palfrey  to  the  spot  where  the 
play  was  to  be  acted.  It  is  said — it  is  a 
legend  only,  but  we  can  credit  it — that 
Elizabeth  wanted  to  see  the  great  Falstaff 
worsted  in  a  new  way,  and  thus  (by 
command,  as  we  should  say  now)  Shake- 
speare wrote  for  the  delectation  of  the  royal 
lady  and  her  court  his  delightful  Merry 
Wives. 

After  Windsor  is  left,  the  lower  reaches 
simply  swarm  with  "  associations."  But 
among  the  many  famous  names  that  need 
not  be  specified,  as  doubtless  familiar,  and 
certainly  chronicled  in  full  by  river-manual 
or  local  guide-book,  let  the  wayfarer  recall 
213 


The  Thames  from  Oxford  to  the  Nore 

for  a  moment  at  Mortlake  (which  Turner 
so  loved)  that  unfortunate  Partridge  (the 
astrologer,  not  "  September's  fowl  ")  whom 
Swift  and  Steele  tormented  so  sorely.  The 
poor  man  lies  here  at  peace  at  last,  after 
those  exasperating  later  years  when  Steele 
would  write  his  obituary,  and  on  his  in- 
dignant protest  that  he  was  alive  and 
prophesying  still,  was  informed  that  he 
must  be  dead,  as  his  own  almanac  had 
foretold  the  event.  The  unfortunate  man 
made  a  desperate  final  attempt  not  to  be 
shelved  to  the  shades  while  still  in  the  portly 
flesh,  but  the  attempt  failed,  and  he  had  to 
endure  a  fresh  obituary  article  about  him- 
self with  added  picturesque  details  of  the 
funeral. 

At  Twickenham,  as  already  promised, 
we  shall  not  linger,  though  it  was  the 
Ferney  of  the  eighteenth -century  literary 
world,  as  Pope  was  the  English  Voltaire. 
As  for  Horace  Walpole,  was  not  he  the 
artificial  sinner  who  outraged  every  tradition 
of  genuine  English  poetry  or  prose,  from 
Chaucer  to  William  Morris,  by  writing  of 
"  enamelled  meadows  with  filigree  hedges  "  ? 

And  so  we  slip  on  down  stream,  past 
Richmond  ...  it,  the  Park,  and  the  Star 
and  Garter  so  "  replete,"  with  Georgian 
214 


The  Thames  from  Oxford  to  the  Nore 

anecdote  and  early  Victorian  reminiscence  ! 
...  to  Barn  Elms.  "  Mighty  pleasant," 
wrote  Pepys,  "  the  supping  here  under  the 
trees  by  the  waterside."  Here  that  ever 
genial  old  youth  came,  on  a  memorable 
occasion,  on  a  barge  from  the  Tower,  "  a 
mighty  long  way,"  with  Mistress  Pepys 
and  maid  and  page,  and  dames  Corbet, 
Pierce,  and  Manuel,  "  singing  all  the  way, 
and  Mistress  Manuel  very  finely."  Here 
he  and  his  strolled  and  scandalised  and 
laughed  under  the  elms  by  moonshine  .  .  . 
"  and  then  to  barge  again  and  more  singing." 
'Tis  a  Watteau  picture.  Would  we  could 
look  on  its  like  again  !  Now  the  route  is  by 
the  crowded  excursion -steamer,  and  'Arry 
and  'Arriet  do  the  rest.  Pepys  and  Evelyn 
and  all  of  that  blithe  company  would  sniff 
"  mightily  "  now,  I  fear,  at  all  riverside 
resorts,  from  the  Bells  of  Ouseley,  fragrant 
of  tea  and  buttered  buns,  down  to  remote 
Gravesend,  where  still,  as  of  yore,  at  Mrs. 
Brambles'  of  Hogarth's  day,  tea  and 
shrimps  inevitably  concur. 

As  we  pass  Putney  and  Hammersmith 
and  Chelsea,  what  memories  of  great  names 
past  and  present  !  Beyond  the  old  bridge 
at  Putney  the  great  Gibbon  was  born  and 
"  had  his  schoolings  "  ;  and  a  short  way 
215 


The  Thames  from  Oxford  to  the  Nore 

up   the    Rise    is   the    house    where    Swin- 
burne   so    long    resided,    and    with    him, 
at    The    Pines,    Theodore     Watts -Dunton. 
and    close    by    is    Putney    Heath,    where 
daily  Swinburne   took    his    solitary    walk. 
At    Hammersmith,   as    every    one    knows, 
William  Morris  had    the  London  home  of 
his  later  years.     To  a  mean  little  house  in 
a    poor    neighbourhood,    here,     the    great 
American  romancist,  Nathaniel  Hawthorne, 
made  a  pilgrimage,  in  order  to  pay  homage 
to  Leigh  Hunt,  when  in  his  silver-haired, 
beautiful  old  age  that  sunny -hearted  poet 
and  prince  of  delicate  things  lived  there  in 
poverty  and  isolation.*    As  for  Chelsea,  is 
not  "  the  sage  of  Chelsea  "  already  a  by- 
word and  a  phrase  ?     But  fewer  know  that 
a  short  way  from  Cheyne  Row,  where  the 
great    philosopher -historian   lived   so   long, 
is  the  house   (16  Cheyne    Walk)  occupied 
during  the  latter  part  of  his  life  by  the  poet- 
painter   Dante   Gabriel   Rossetti.     To   this 
house  came,  gladly  and  proudly,  all  who 
could   win   the   privilege   of   entry  ;    here, 
as  has  been  said,  many  of  the  most  famous 
pictures    and    many    of    the    most    famous 

*  Hawthorne  contributed  a  long  and  interesting 
account  of  this  visit  to  the  A  tlantic  Monthly  about 
thirty  years  ago  (1874,  I  think). 
216 


The  Thames  from  Oxford  to  the  Nore 

books  of  our  time  were  discussed  in  advance, 
and  in  some  instances  projected.  Rossetti's 
house,  in  a  word,  was  from  1871  till  1881 
the  Mecca  of  the  "romantic"  devotee  in 
both  pictorial  and  literary  art.  We  are 
not  dealing  with  the  artistic  associations 
of  the  Thames — to  use  the  word  in  its 
common  significance  —  or  Whistler  and 
others  would  delay  us.  The  literary  and 
artistic  history  of  Chelsea,  indeed,  would 
be  of  more  interest  and  importance  than 
that  of  any  other  part  of  London,  in 
connection  with  the  study  of  the  literary 
and  artistic  history  of  the  later  Victorian 
epoch. 

Well,  down  stream  we  go,  past  Black - 
friars,  where  once  Rossetti  and  Mr.  George 
Meredith  in  early  days  had  rooms,  and  where 
both  Dickens  and  Thackeray  found  a 
never-ceasing  fascination  ;  below  the  vast 
new  bridge  and  past  the  Tower,  with  a 
glimpse  of  Traitor's  Gate, 

.  .  .  through  which  before 
Went  Essex,  Raleigh,  Sidney,  Cranmer,  More, 

and  so  through  The  Pool,  the  maelstrom 
heart  of  London.  How  painters,  from 
Turner  to  Whistler,  have  loved  this  grimy 
but  ever  inspiring  and  wonderful  water - 
217 


The  Thames  from  Oxford  to  the  Nore 

heart,  whence  all  the  countries  of  the  world 
may  bring  tribute  to  London,  and  wherein 
London  sees  as  in  a  crystal  (alas  !  that  it 
is  but  a  metaphor  !)  all  lands  and  nations 
from   California  to  Cathay.      One   modern 
painter    has,    in    "  Wapping    Old    Stairs," 
seized  the  poetry   of  The   Pool,   and  for- 
tunately W.  L.  Wyllie's  picture  is  now  a 
national   possession.     It  goes  without  say- 
ing that  Dickens,  Marryatt,  Clark  Russell, 
loved  The  Pool  only  this  side  of  idolatry. 
Readers  of  this  series  of  Literary  Geography 
will  recollect  how  the  heroine  of  Charlotte 
Bronte's  Villette  set  off  alone  and  friendless 
one  wet  and  stormy  night  from  here,  and 
the    strong,    vivid    etching    of    the    scene. 
What   lovers   of    Our   Mutual   Friend   and 
Great  Expectations  do  not  know  intimately 
all  this  haunted  region,   from  where  The 
Pool  becomes  The  Port,  till  the  great  tower 
of    Westminster    recedes    from    view,    and 
the    river — with    hoys    swinging    sideways, 
and  barges  veering  wildly,  and  every  kind 
of    craft    as    seemingly    at    the    mercy    of 
malicious   river -sprites — sweeps   on   to   the 
Isle  of  Dogs  (once  the  Isle  of  Ducks  .  .  . 
in    days    when    the    bittern    was    common 
in  Plumstead  Marshes,  and  when  the  curlew 
and  the  lapwing  wailed  over  waste  places 
218 


The  Thames  from  Oxford  to  the  Nore 

where  now  the  electric  tram  screeches  or 
the  coster  howls)  ? 

But  before  the  City  is  left,  who  will  not 
remember  that  great  sonnet  of  Wordsworth, 
composed  at  early  morning  upon  West- 
minster Bridge,  when 

This  city  now  doth  like  a  garment  wear 
The  beauty  of  the  morning  .   .   . 

.  .  .  the  very  houses  seem  asleep; 
A  nd  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still. 

As  for  Southwark,  are  not  its  associations 
among  the  greatest  we  have  ?  Chaucer, 
Shakespeare,  these  two  names  alone  make 
this  (now,  alack,  far  from  attractive)  region 
supreme  among  all  the  boroughs  of  London. 
Here  was  the  Globe  Theatre,  where,  so  to 
speak,  the  banner  of  the  Elizabethan  drama 
flew  so  gallantly  at  the  peak.  Many  will 
recall  the  fact  of  the  sudden  conflagration 
of  the  Globe,  three  years  before  Shake- 
speare's death,  during  a  performance  of 
Henry  VIII.  Not  far  from  the  old  theatre, 
in  the  High  Street,  was  the  Tabard  Inn, 
whence  adult  English  literature  set  forth 
upon  its  first  high  adventure.  In  the  old 
church  of  St.  Saviour's  (anciently  St. 
Mary  Overies)  lie  the  remains  of  learned 
John  Gower,  Chaucer's  contemporary,  and 
219 


The  Thames  from  Oxford  to  the  Nore 

those  of  Chaucer  himself  ;  of  Edmund 
Shakespeare,  the  brother  of  our  great 
poet  ;  of  Philip  Massinger,  not  the  least 
dramatist  of  that  marvellous  period  ;  and 
of  John  Fletcher,  poet  and  dramatist, 
whose  name,  with  that  of  his  colleague 
Francis  Beaumont,  stands  so  high  in  the 
admiration  of  all  who  love  the  best  literature 
of  the  great  Elizabethans. 

Thence,  to  the  meeting  of  the  sea -wind 
coming  over  Plumstead  Marshes,  or  slump- 
ing the  tide-wash  against  the  ebb  at 
Tilbury  Fort,  or  causing  the  famous 
"  Thames  Dance  "  at  the  Nore,  or  bearing 
inland  the  heavy  booming  of  the  guns  of 
Shoeburyness,  or  making  the  grey-green 
seas  surge  like  a  mill-race  across  the 
eighteen-mile  reach  from  Whitstable  to 
Foulness  Point  .  .  .  this  is  a  journey  in- 
deed !  And  of  Rotherhithe  (where  still 
are  inns  bearing  the  old  heroic  Elizabethan 
designations  of  The  Ship  Argo  and  The 
Swallow  Galley)  ;  of  Rosherville,  of  Green- 
wich and  its  park  (Scots  readers  will  recall 
a  great  scene  in  Sir  Walter  Scott's  one 
London  romance,  The  Fortunes  of  Nigel), 
of  Gravesend  and  "  Farewell  Haven  "  (lovers 
of  Dickens,  Marry  at  t,  Clark  Russell,  of 
many  from  Smollett  to  W.  W.  Jacobs,  will 

220 


The  Thames  from  Oxford  to  the  Nore 

regret  so  cursory  a  mention) — of  these 
and  of  every  mile  from  The  Port  and 
the  great  wilderness  of  the  Docks,  to 
where  the  solitary  Reculvers  watch  the 
last  dispersed  flood  of  Thames  swallowed 
up  by  the  sea  .  .  .  what  a  chronicle  might 
be  written  ! 

Truly,  Thames -flood  carries  one  on  un- 
witting of  the  rapid  flow.  I  am  come 
almost  to  an  end  of  my  space,  and  yet  have 
not  even  touched  those  more  personal 
recollections  which  I  had  in  mind  to 
commit.  Well,  some  other  time,  perhaps. 
Meanwhile,  they  can  be  but  alluded  to. 
And  then,  too,  the  many  persons  and 
episodes  one  has  forgotten  to  chronicle  ! 
Sheridan,  for  instance  :  how  few  think  of 
him  as  "a  literary  association  "  of  the 
Thames  !  Yet  what  reader  of  that  de- 
lightful comedy,  The  Critic,  can  have 
forgotten  the  inimitable  scene  at  Tilbury 
Fort,  where  the  Governor's  daughter  gen- 
teelly goes  mad  in  white  satin,  and  is 
accompanied  into  lunacy  by  the  'umble 
friend  and  companion  who,  as  becomes 
her  meaner  condition,  respectfully  and 
discreetly  goes  out  of  her  senses  in  ordinary 
white  linen  ! 

It  is  a  far  cry  back  from  Tilbury  to 
221 


The  Thames  from  Oxford  to  the  Nore 

remote  Lechlade,  and  yet  I  would  like  to  be 
there  again,  and  starting  with  the  sympa- 
thetic reader  on  a  new  waterway  pilgrimage. 
How  well  I  recollect  the  Trout  Inn  there, 
one  May  day,  with  its  great  sycamore  rustling 
in  the  lightsome  west  wind  !  In  the  sunny 
little  garden  and  orchard  behind,  under 
the  fragrant  shadow  of  a  great  walnut-tree, 
a  friend  was  seated,  reading.  Pale,  some- 
what heavily  built,  a  student  and  thinker 
(as  the  least  observant  could  not  but  have 
discerned),  low-voiced,  sensitive  as  a  leaf, 
and  yet  with  a  restful  composure  all  his 
own,  Walter  Pater  read  a  recently  written 
and  one  of  the  loveliest  chapters  of  a  book, 
from  the  first  conceived  in  beauty,  and  to 
the  end  in  beauty  achieved  .  .  .  the  book 
now  so  surely  gathered  into  English  litera- 
ture and  known  to  all  who  care  for  what  is 
finest  and  rarest  therein  as  Marius  the 
Epicurean. 

Then  as  to  Kelmscott  Manor,  a  cuckoo's 
flight  away  :  a  whole  article  might  well  be 
given  to  this  beautiful  old  riverside  place 
and  its  many  associations.  The  country 
home  of  William  Morris  for  twenty -five 
years,  it  has  also  many  associations  with 
Rossetti,  who  for  a  year  or  two  from  1871 
was  fellow  tenant  with  and,  as  to  occupancy, 
222 


The  Thames  from  Oxford  to  the  Nore 

preponderant  partner  with  Morris  ;  as 
also  with  Swinburne,  Theodore  Watts  - 
Dunton,  Burne-Jones,  and  many  others. 
"  Kelmscott  Manor,"  wrote  Morris,  and 
characteristically,  in  a  letter  in  1882,  *  has 
come  to  be  to  me  the  type  of  the  pleasant 
places  of  the  earth,  and  of  the  homes  of 
harmless,  simple  people  not  overburdened 
with  the  intricacies  of  life  ;  and  as  others 
love  the  race  of  man  through  their  lovers  or 
their  children,  so  I  love  the  earth  through 
that  small  space  of  it."  That,  of  course, 
was  long  after  the  Rossetti -Morris  days  at 
this  beautiful  old  riverside  home  :  indeed, 
it  was  written  in  the  sad  year  of  that  great 
poet  and  painter's  death.  There  is  a  little 
island  formed  by  the  backwater  close  to 
the  house,  and  in  spring  this  was  always 
an  Eden  of  songbirds  in  a  region  which 
was  and  is  the  songbirds'  paradise.  Here, 
and  at  the  Manor,  Rossetti  wrote  many 
of  his  loveliest  lyrics  and  sonnets,  and 
the  long  and  noble  poem  Rose  Mary. 
Who  has  forgotten  the  music  of  Down 
Stream  P : 

Between  Holmscote  and  Hurstcote 

The  river  reaches  wind, 
The  whispering  trees  accept  the  breeze, 

The  ripple's  cool  and  kind. 
223 


The  Thames  from  Oxford  to  the  Nore 

At  Kelmscott,  also,  he  wrote  (or  rewrote 
from  an  earlier  version)  that  lovely  poem  of 
some  nine-score  stanzas,  The  Bride's  Prelude. 
I  recall  how  once,  at  Kelmscott,  Morris 
turned  to  me,  after  he  had  been  speaking 
of  Tennyson  and  Browning  and  Matthew 
Arnold,  as  also  of  the  poetry  of  George 
Meredith  and  of  Swinburne — and,  speak- 
ing generally,  for  the  work  of  any  of  these 
poets  he  did  not  really  at  heart  care  much — 
and  said  abruptly,  "  Poetry  has  spoken 
only  once  in  absolute  beauty  since  Keats." 
Then,  turning  a  volume  in  his  hand  and 
glancing  once  in  a  way  at  the  page  he 
opened,  he  recited,  in  that  strange  sing-song 
sea -sounding  chant  of  his,  the  following 
lines,  which  open  the  poem  of  The  Bride's 
Chamber  (as  he  called  it,  and  as  Rossetti 
had  originally  entitled  it)  : 

"  Sister,"  said  busy  Amelotte 

To  listless  A  loysee  ; 
"  Along  the  wedding-road  the  wheat 
Bends  as  to  hear  your  horse1  s  feet, 
And  the  noonday  stands  still  for  heat." 

Amelotte  laughed  into  the  air 

With  eyes  that  sought  the  sun  : 
But  where  the  walls  in  long  brocade 
Were  screened,  as  one  who  is  afraid 
Sat  A  loysee  within  the  shade. 
224 


The  Thames  from  Oxford  to  the  Nore 

And  even  in  shade  was  gleam  enough 

To  shut  out  full  repose 
From  the  bride's  'tiring  chamber,  which 
Was  like  the  inner  altar-niche 
Whose  dimness  worship  has  made  rich. 

Within  the  window's  heaped  recess 

The  light  was  counter  changed 
In  blent  reflexes  manifold 
From  perfume  caskets  of  wrought  gold 
And  gems  the  bride's  hair  could  not  hold 

All  thrust  together  :  and  with  these 

A  slim-curved  lute,  which  now, 
At  Amelotte's  sudden  passing  there, 
Was  swept  in  somewise  unaware, 
And  shook  to  music  the  close  air. 


"  There,"  he  said,  "  there  you  have  the 
unadulterated  article.  That's  poetry.  As 
for  the  rest  of  us,  for  the  most  part  we  write 
verse  poetically." 

Morris's  likings  in  poetry  were  singular. 
Wordsworth  he  actually  disliked  :  Milton, 
save  in  rare  lines  and  on  rarer  occasions, 
had  little  appeal  for  him.  For  a  little  of 
Chaucer  he  would  have  relinquished  all  of 
Tennyson's  work  save  his  earlier  verse  : 
and  Browning  he  considered  "  to  have 
stopped  climbing  the  hill  "  when  he  forsook 
the  method  and  manner  of  his  early  man- 
hood— though  there  was  none  whom  he 

iv  225  P 


The  Thames  from  Oxford  to  the  Nore 

more  loved  to  quote  and  extol  in  those  far-off 
Oxford  years,  when,  as  one  of  his  biographers 
has  chronicled,  the  Morris  of  "  the  purple 
trousers  of  the  Oxford  days "  had  not 
matured  to  "  the  great  simplicity  and 
untidiness  "  of  his  middle  age. 

The  last  time  I  saw  Morris  at  Kelmscott 
Manor  was  just  such  a  day  as  that  on  which 
a  year  or  two  later  he  was  buried  in  the 
little  churchyard  close  by  :  a  day  of  chill 
October,  with  a  rainy  wind  soughing  among 
the  alders,  and  the  damp  chrysanthemum  - 
petals  blown  about  the  gar  den -ways  be- 
neath a  low  grey  sky.  I  think  this  was  in 
1894  :  at  any  rate,  I  recollect  it  was  on  a 
day  when  he  had  just  received  a  welcome 
letter  from  Swinburne  relative  to  the  pub- 
lication by  the  Kelmscott  Press  of  certain 
old  thirteenth-century  reprints  of  French 
prose.  I  remember  the  latest  (or  one  of 
the  later)  volumes  was  lying  on  the  table, 
near  the  window,  against  which  a  sleety 
rain  pattered — the  Violier  des  Histoires 
romaines — and  in  his  letter  about  it 
Swinburne  recalled  their  mutual  delight 
in  these  old  French  prose -poems  "  in  the 
days  when  we  first  foregathered  in 
Oxford,"  .  .  .  that  is,  forty  years  earlier, 
for  it  was  in  January  1856  that,  there, 
226 


The  Thames  from  Oxford  to  the  Nore 

the  young  undergraduate  Algernon  Charles 
Swinburne  first  met  Morris  and  Rossetti. 

It  was  not  at  his  beloved  Kelmscott 
Manor,  however,  that  William  Morris  died, 
though  buried  in  the  village  graveyard  ; 
but  at  Kelmscott  House,  his  London  home 
in  Hammersmith. 

With  him  passed  away  one  of  the  most 
fervent  of  Thames -lovers  and  one  of  the 
greatest  of  those  who  have  set  their  seal 
upon  the  Royal  River. 


227 


THE  LAKE  OF  GENEVA 

Toi,  notre  amour,  vieille  Geneve, 
Dont  I'Acropole  a  double  autel, 
Qui  tiens  la  Bible  et  ceins  le  glaive, 
Cite  du  droit,  temple  immortel  ; 
Toi,  lac  d'azur,  dont  I'eau  profonde 
Baigne  I'Eden  cree  pour  nous, 
Sous  quels  deux  trouver,  en  ce  monde, 
A'ieux  plus  grands,  berceau  plus  doux  ? 

AMIEL. — Hymne  a  Gen&ve. 

LET  the  travelled  as  well  as  the  untravelled 
reader  rest  assured  :  I  have  not  written  of 
Lac  Leman  in  order  to  describe  Chillon  and 
quote  the  deadly -familiar  lines  of  Byron, 
nor  to  record  the  fact  that  a  considerable 
change  has  come  upon  Lausanne  since  that 
innumerably  chronicled  hour,  when,  in  an 
alley  overlooking  the  lake,  near  midnight, 
Gibbon  walked  slowly  to  and  fro  alone, 
having  just  written  the  last  lines  of  his 
great  life-work — "  his  monumental  master- 
piece," as  the  guide-book  writers  call  it, 
as  though  it  were  the  chef  d'ceuvre  of  an 
"  artist  in  funereal  stone,"  to  quote  the 
delightful  designation  of  a  proud  Maryle- 
228 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

bonian.  These  things  have  been  done  to 
death.  I  am  sure  many  tourists  to  the 
eastern  end  of  the  Lake  of  Geneva  refrain 
at  Vevey,  or  stand  fast  at  Territet,  because 
of  this  exploited  Chillon,  these  exhausted 
associations,  these  paralysing  quotations. 
It  is  a  point  of  honour  among  residents  at 
Montreux  to  ignore  Bonnivard,  and  to 
become  distant  at  any  mention  of  Byron. 
Sometimes,  on  the  steamer  from  Montreux 
to  Villeneuve,  or  on  the  top  of  the  electric 
Vevey -Territet  car,  when  a  group  of  tourists 
stare,  some  hungrily,  some  shamefacedly, 
upon  Chillon,  an  uncontrolled  mind  breaks 
out  in  the  time  worn  Byronic  quotation. 
It  is  always  done  with  an  air  of  new  dis- 
covery or  of  lightly  carried  erudition,  with- 
out pity  for  the  sufferings  of  others.  Then 
there  is  that  island,  wedded  hopelessly  to 
an  inane  couplet.  No,  if  one  wish  to 
"  Byronise "  (as  a  serious  French  writer 
has  it),  let  it  rather  be  at  Ouchy,  where, 
at  the  Anchor  Inn,  the  poet  spent  pleasant 
days,  or  at  the  Villa  Diodati  on  the  Geneva 
shore,  opposite  Coppet,  where  Manfred 
was  written,  and  where  Byron  the  poet  is 
much  more  interesting  than  Byron  the 
sentimentalist. 

Of  course  they  must  be  mentioned.     As  a 
229 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

matter  of  fact  one  could  not  sail  eastern 
Geneva  without  a  heard,  read,  or  re- 
membered Byron  quotation  or  association  ; 
as  a  matter  of  surety  one  could  not  visit 
Lausanne  without  a  real  quickening  at 
the  thought  of  Gibbon  as  not  last  nor  least 
among  its  "  associations."  True,  the 
quickening  slacks  off  considerably  when 
one  penetrates  the  Hotel  Gibbon,  and 
particularly  if  one  stays  or  has  a  meal, 
when  the  bill  is  apt  to  suffer  of  a  dropsy 
because  the  visitor  is  a  Briton  and  because 
(as  an  imported  cockney -Swiss  waiter  may 
confide):  "'Ere  sir,  yessir,  it  was  'ere, 
sir,  that  the  great  Mr.  Gibbon  wrote  'is 
'istory.  View  from  the  window,  sir,  when 
you  'ave  your  coffee.  Wine  list,  sir  ?  " 

But  the  time  is  past  to  dwell  upon  them. 
Many  scores,  many  hundreds  belike,  have, 
in  connection  with  the  Lake  of  Geneva, 
exploited  these  two  great  names.  By 
Leman  shores  there  is  a  contagious  ailment 
to  Byronise,  to  Gibbonate.  To  read  most 
guide-books  and  kindred  chronicles,  one 
would  think  the  Lake  had  no  other  associa- 
tions ;  that  at  most  these  are  shared,  though 
in  lesser  degree,  by  Voltaire  and  Rousseau 
only.  And  what  a  deal  of  eloquence  always 
accompanies  those  reminiscences  !  I  take 
230 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

up  one  familiar  volume,  and  read  that  in 
the  pleasant  hotel-gardens  are  "  the  har- 
monious sounds  of  an  almost  invisible 
orchestra  in  the  fleecy  foliage  of  the  glades, 
whose  melodies  mingle  with,  &c.  &c. — 
delicious  rocking  of  the  soul  and  the  senses 
in  an  immaterial  atmosphere."  The  same 
enthusiast  states  that  Annecy  is  the  nurse 
of  passion.  Alas  !  my  soul  was  never, 
along  these  lovely  shores,  deliciously  rocked 
in  an  immaterial  atmosphere  ;  and,  a  con- 
scientious St.  Anthony  en  voyage,  I  avoided 
Annecy.  The  reader,  therefore,  must  be 
content  with  little  of  Gibbon  and  less  of 
Byron,  and  nothing  of  dithyrambic.  A 
simple  directness  must  be  my  humbler 
aim — if  not  quite  the  same  simple  direct- 
ness as  that  of  the  American  translator  of 
Voltaire's  Princesse  de  Babylon,  who  makes 
the  Pharaoh  of  Egypt  address  the  Princess 
Formosanta  as  "  Miss,  you  are  the  lady  I 
was  in  quest  of  "  ;  or,  again,  "  Miss,"  re- 
plied the  King  of  Egypt,  "  I  know  life  too 
well,"  &c. 

This  same  Formosanta,  by  the  way,  has 
always  struck  me  as  a  most  delightful 
character  and  a  veritable  Princess  Charming 
among  the  princesses  lointaines  of  modern 
literature.  Why  is  she  not  better  known  ? 
231 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

How  nai've  her  continual  delightful  reverie 
— as  when  she  ponders  profoundly  on  the 
certainly  puzzling  problem  as  to  why  the 
young  man  of  her  fancy  should  choose  to 
ride  a  unicorn.  Unicorns,  it  may  be  added, 
are  for  some  singular  reason  as  common  in 
La  Princesse  de  Babylon  as  are  wicked 
baronets  and  dishonourable  honourables  in 
contemporary  fiction.  One  is  surprised 
that  when  the  Pharaoh  approaches  For- 
mosanta  with  select  wooing-gifts  he  omits 
this  useful  animal  in  his  present  of  two 
crocodiles,  two  sea-horses,  two  zebras,  two 
Nile  rats,  and  two  mummies  in  prime  con- 
dition. On  the  other  hand,  those  who 
have  read  the  tale  will  remember  that,  in  an 
emergency,  the  obliging  Phoenix  forthwith 
ordered  a  coach  with  six  unicorns.  And 
what  a  Phoenix  !  What  words  of  wisdom 
it  communicates  in  and  out  of  season  ! 
How  far  from  Maeterlinckian  in  its  freedom 
from  mysticism,  as  when  it  remarks  "Re- 
surrection ?  Why,  resurrection  is  one  of 
the  most  simple  things  in  the  world  ;  there 
is  nothing  more  in  being  born  twice  than 
once." 

All  which  is  not  so  inapposite  as  it  may 
seem.     For  La   Princesse  de  Babylon  was 
written  by  the  same  waters  where  Calvin 
232 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

brooded,  where  Amiel  sadly  pondered, 
where  Dumas  laughed  and  Tartarin  gas- 
conaded, &c.  &c.  &c.  ;  yes,  where  Gibbon 
historiographed,  and  where  Byron  immor- 
talised Bonnivard,  and  where  Lady  Rose's 
Daughter  has  been  a  recent  visitor. 

It  would  be  impracticable  to  give  a 
complete  list  of  all  the  famous  folk  in  art 
and  literature  in  one  way  or  another 
associated  with  the  shores  and  towns  of 
Lac  Leman.*  It  is  a  kind  of  shore -set 
Cosmopolis.  Julius  Caesar  is  a  long  way 
off,  and  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward  is  very  much 
of  to-day,  but  between  these  two  scribes 
is  an  army  of  poets  and  novelists,  essayists 
and  philosophers,  "  Alpestriens  "  like  De 
Saussure  (and,  let  us  add,  Tartarin),  "  word- 
painters  "  like  Rousseau  and  Amiel  and 
our  own  John  Ruskin.  Switzerland  itself 
gives  many  names,  from  the  great  Jean 
Jacques  to  the  much-loved  romancist  Topffer 
and  his  confrere  Victor  Cherbuliez — "this 
young  conqueror,"  "  this  young  wizard  of 
erudition  and  charm,"  as  Henri  Frederic 

*  I  think  it  is  Amiel  who  remonstrates  some- 
where on  the  habitual  foreign  and  even  French 
misuse  of  Lac  L&man  for  Lac  du  Leman  ;  but  use 
and  wont  have  now  made  the  article  obsolete,  and 
even  purists  like  M.  Anatole  France  and  M.  Paul 
Bourget  have  concurred  in  the  vulgarisation. 

233 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

Amiel  wrote  of  him  more  than  forty  years 
ago  in  the  famous  Journal.  But  it  is 
France,  with  Voltaire,  De  Senancour,  Stend- 
hal, Mme.  de  Stael,  George  Sand,  Dumas, 
Daudet,  and  others  ;  England,  with  Byron, 
Gibbon,  Dickens,  and  a  score  more,  from 
Ruskin,  the  literary  high-priest  of  Switzer- 
land, to  more  than  one  eminent  novelist 
of  to-day  ;  America  with  Longfellow  and 
Mark  Twain,  Russia  with  Turgeniev,  Ger- 
many with  a  battalion  led  by  Goethe,  Italy 
with  Edmondo  de  Amicis  and  others,  which 
contribute  collectively  far  more  to  the 
roll-call  than  does  the  Helvetian  Republic. 
Indeed,  the  chief  Swiss  critics  themselves 
recognise  that  their  country  does  not  excel 
in  literature  and  the  arts,  though  they  can 
say  with  pride  that  the  most  influential  of 
all  modern  authors,  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau, 
was  not  only  born  a  Swiss,  but  lived  the 
better  part  of  his  years  and  wrote  the  better 
part  of  his  immense  achievement  in  his 
native  country.  "The  one  regret  we  have/' 
said  a  Freiburg  professor  whom  I  met  on  a 
"  Nouvelle  Heloi'se "  pilgrimage  in  the 
pleasant  hill-country  between  Montreux 
and  Vevey,  "  is  that  Rousseau  lies  at 
Ermenonville,  in  France,  instead  of  at 
Geneva  or  Lausanne,  Vevey  or  Clarens, 
234 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

Neuchatel  or  Berne,  or  best  perhaps  at 
that  He  de  la  Motte,  on  the  beautiful  Lake 
of  Bienne,  where  he  spent  some  of  his 
happiest  days." 

For  a  moment  I  was  puzzled,  for  I  re- 
membered somewhat  vaguely  having  read 
in  the  Confessions  or  elsewhere  that  Rousseau 
had  recorded  his  happiest  memories  as 
connected  with  the  Isle  of  Saint-Pierre. 
However,  my  companion  of  the  hour  in- 
formed me  that  the  He  de  Saint-Pierre  and 
the  He  de  la  Motte  are  one  and  the  same, 
and  obliged  me  further  by  quoting  Jean 
Jacques'  own  words  :  "  de  toutes  les 
habitations  ou  j'ai  demeure,  et  fen  ai  eu 
de  charmantes,  aucune  ne  m'a  rendu  si 
veritablement  heureux  et  ne  m'a  laisse  de 
si  tendres  regrets  que  1'ile  de  Saint-Pierre 
au  milieu  du  lac  de  Bienne "  —(which  I 
trust  are  correctly  given  ;  if  not,  the  fault 
is  mine,  not  the  good  Freiburger's). 

But  as  it  does  not  do  for  a  foreigner  to 
make  sweeping  statements  about  the  litera- 
ture of  another  country,  let  me  translate 
a  passage  from  M.  Joel  Cherbuliez's  excellent 
monograph  Geneve*  After  recounting  some 

*  M.  Joel  Cherbuliez,  one  of  the  heads  of  the 
great  Paris  and  Geneva  publishing  firm  of  the 
Cherbuliez,  was  (possibly  is  a  still  surviving) 

235 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

of  the  more  or  less  celebrated  Swiss  names 
since  Rousseau  and  Madame  de  Stael — 
e.g.  the  publicist,  Mallet  Du  Pan  ;  the 
historian  Berenger ;  the  philosophic  writer 
P.  Prevost,  who  made  known  in  France 
the  works  of  Dugald  Stewart,  and  had 
(according  to  the  point  of  view)  a  good  or 
bad  influence  as  the  French  populariser  of 
the  doctrines  of  Malthus  on  the  regulation 
of  population ;  Sismondi,  the  historian  of 
the  Italian  Republics  ;  and  Chr.  V.  de 
Bonstetter,  a  name  once  so  familiar  in  the 
literary  circles  of  Geneva,  Lausanne,  Paris, 
London,  and  Berlin,  but  now  almost  for- 
gotten, though  to  our  disadvantage,  I 
thought,  after  reading  one  day  at  Lausanne 
this  spring  his  excellent  Voyage  dans  le 
Latium,  and  suggestive  UHomme  du  Midi 
et  rHomme  du  Nord — M.  Cherbuliez  adds  : 
"As  to  light  literature,  it  has  never 
flourished  among  the  Genevese.  As  yet 
Geneva  has  not  been  fertile  in  poets  ;  she 
can  claim  but  a  very  small  number  of  writers 
of-  fiction,  and  not  a  single  dramatic  author 
of  any  renown.  It  is  her  weak  side." 

It  may  be  admitted,  of  course,  on  the 
principle  of  quality  and  importance  rather 

brother   of  the   famous    novelist    and    art-writer 

Victor  Cherbuliez,  the  most  eminent  modern  Swiss . 

236 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

than  quantity  and  promiscuity,  that  to 
have  produced  Rousseau  and  Madame  de 
Stael — the  one  a  great  writer,  whose  genius 
blew  over  the  minds  of  men  as  an  irresistible 
wind,  and  whose  thought  descended  in 
fertilising  rain  upon  waste  regions,  or  upon 
places  become  or  becoming  arid  ;  the  other, 
one  of  the  few  women  who  have  shown  the 
way  and  seized  the  passes  of  new  regions 
for  the  curious  mind  and  the  eager  imagina- 
tion— is,  perhaps,  adequate  distinction  for 
a  country  so  small  and  language -severed  as 
Switzerland. 

Ah,  that  fatal  handicap  of  the  absence 
of  a  national  language  !  "  Where  am  I," 
writes  Mark  Twain  somewhere  :  "  where  am 
I,  in  this  unhappy  land,  where  one  citizen 
speaks  German,  and  the  next  fellow  citizen 
speaks  French,  and  the  third  speaks  Italian — 
to  say  nothing  of  the  Swiss  watier,  who 
speaks  everything  from  Chinese  to  Choc- 
taw  ?  " 

"  Is  there  a  Switzerland  !  "  wrote  Dumas 
in  one  of  his  delightful  reminiscences  of 
travel :  "  or  is  it  only  a  geographical 
expression  for  an  international  playground 
snipped  off  from  France,  Germany,  and 
Italy  ?  " 

And    lovers    of    the  immortal  Tartarin 

237 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

and    Bompard  will    recall  their  pregnant 
summary  : 

"  '  What  a  queer  country  this  Switzer- 
land is  !  '  "  exclaimed  Tartarin. 

"  Bompard  began  to  laugh. 

"  '  Ah,  vai  !    Switzerland  ?     In  the  first 
place  there  is  nothing  Swiss  in  it  !  ' 

Every  visitor  to  the  Lake  of  Geneva 
will,  en  route  or  on  the  spot,  have  learned 
all  that  his  "  Baedeker  "  or  "  Joanne  "  or 
other  guide-book  has  to  tell,  as  to  the 
physical  geography  of  Lac  Leman  or  Genfer- 
See,  as  French  and  Germans  respectively 
call  this  mountain-circled  inland  sea,  which 
stretches  from  Geneva  along  French  shores 
by  Yvoire  and  Thonon  and  Evian  to  Saint - 
Gingolph,  a  townlet  in  the  valley  of  the 
Rhone  where  one  may  sleep  in  France,  but 
at  the  post-office  across  the  road  is  in 
Switzerland  ;  and  from  Eaux-vives,  on  the 
Genevese  left  bank,  by  Coppet  to  Lausanne 
and  Vevey,  to  the  three  towns  of  Montreux, 
and  to  the  final  shores  at  Chillon  and 
Villeneuve.  There  is  not  a  locality  on 
either  side  that  has  not  some  association 
of  literary  interest.  In  this  respect,  indeed, 
there  is  truth  in  Voltaire's  verse,  when  in  a 
moment  of  rare  enthusiasm  he  exclaimed, 
"  My  lake  ranks  foremost."  Even  small 
238 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

unnoticed  districts,  as  St.  Saphorin  on  the 
north  and  Des  Allinges  on  the  south  bank, 
have  their  added  interests  of  association 
with  Amiel  and  Saint  Frangois  de  Sales. 

Also,  he  will  read  all  the  hackneyed 
particulars  about  Bonnivard  at  Chillon, 
and  Byron's  lines  ;  about  Calvin  at  Geneva  ; 
and  the  distinct  waters  of  the  Arve  and  the 
Rhone  when  they  have  become  one  river — 
with  the  usual  commentary  that  it  is  like 
life,  like  fate,  like  marriage,  or  like  some- 
thing else  to  which  it  bears  a  painfully 
obvious  symbolical  or  other  resemblance. 

So,  rather,  let  us  seek  other  company,  be 
content  to  linger  or  turn  aside,  and  not 
hurry  through  from  Geneva  to  Territet 
by  boat,  or  let  a  glimpse  of  Geneva  and 
Lausanne  suffice  for  this  section  of  the 
Canton  de  Vaud.  It  would  be  delightful 
to  wander  upon  the  mountain-lands  with  a 
De  Saussure  ;  along  the  hill -pastures  and 
lake -meadows  with  a  De  Candolle  or  Huber  ; 
to  study  with  Bouvet  those  unexpected 
aliens,  descendants  of  a  remote  sea-an- 
cestry, the  laughing -gull,  the  sea-swallow, 
and  the  wild  swan,  lovely  habitants  which 
give  a  note  of  wildness  and  strangeness  to 
Geneva  waters  ;  to  stroll  by  shore -roads 
and  highland  ways  with  the  often  mournful 
239 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

but  oftener  eloquent  and  moving  pages  of 
the  Journal  Intime,  for  that  is  the  way  to 
realise  to  the  full  the  subtle  charm  of 
Amiel ;  to  wake  in  a  Vevey  dawn,  as  De 
Senancour  chronicles  in  that  often  beautiful 
but  most  triste  of  books,  Obermann,  "  to 
the  exquisite  fragrance  of  new -mown  hay, 
cut  during  the  cool  freshness  of  the  falling 
dews,  in  the  light  of  the  moon  "  ;  or  to  go 
to  the  scenes  painted  by  Delacroix,  to  visit 
Chartran  at  his  island-studio  off  Clarens,  to 
watch  this  or  that  deft  French  artist  paint- 
ing the  picturesque  felucca -rigged  boats 
and  sailing -barges  which,  inimitably  grace- 
ful, inimitably  lovely,  are  an  untiring 
pleasure  for  the  eyes,  or  watch  this  or  that 
Swede  or  Norwegian  (the  Scandinavian  and 
the  Russ  are  almost  as  frequent  now  as  the 
English  and  German,  and  in  art  have  many 
more  representatives)  painting  the  seemingly 
motionless  highlands  and  vast  capes  of 
cloudland  reflected  in  the  moveless  blue 
depths  ;  to  spend  hours  adrift  in  a  sailing- 
boat,  in  hazy  mornings,  in  dreamlike 
afternoons,  in  moonlit  nights,  sometimes 
dreaming,  sometimes  reading  a  few  winged 
and  lovely  words  of  those  beautiful  pages 
where  Ruskin's  heart  overflows  in  a  grave 
ecstasy — it  would  be  delightful  to  do  all 
240 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

this  vicariously  as  well  as  directly  to  enjoy 
it,  but,  alack,  the  adequate  chronicling  of  it 
would  need  a  volume.  These  delights  can 
only  be  indicated.  And  are  they  not,  in 
truth,  of  the  kind  which  the  few  will  find 
out  for  themselves,  if  time  and  the  occasions 
permit  ?  To  the  many,  Calvin's  pulpit  in 
Geneva  and  Bonnivard's  damp  quarters  in 
Chillon  seem  the  paramount  attraction  of 
a  visit  to  French-Switzerland. 

Besides,  I  should  like  to  unburden  all  my 
accumulated  lore  !  Meanwhile,  with  the 
vagrant  New  Englander  in  A  Tramp  Abroad, 
I  must  perforce  content  myself  with  "  I 
know  more  about  this  lake  than  the  fishes 
in  it  !  " 

Most  visitors  approach  by  way  of  Geneva 
itself.  And  this  is  the  right  way.  It  is 
not  to  discredit  the  City  of  the  Faith  to  say 
that  other  places  along  these  shores  will 
seem  better  after  it  ;  that  is,  to  go  to  other 
places  on  the  Lake  first  and  then  to  visit 
Geneva  is  to  come  upon  disappointment. 
It  is  difficult  to  say  why  this  is  so  ;  and  of 
course  the  impression  may  not  be  general, 
may  for  all  I  know  be  merely  personal. 
With  all  its  spaciousness,  with  its  magnificent 
quays,  its  city  divided  into  two  beautiful 
towns,  its  many  buildings  of  interest,  its 

iv  241  Q 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

quick  and  active  life,  its  whole-hearted 
eagerness  to  spoil  the  Egyptian,  and  every 
other  admitted  and  unadmitted  attraction, 
from  Rousseau's  Isle  ("Who  was  he,  any- 
way ?  "  remarked  a  Cook-conducted  Ameri- 
can one  day)  to  the  Calvinium  and  the 
Model  of  Jerusalem,  where  the  travelling 
evangelical  mightily  rejoiceth — with  all  this, 
and  all  that  Baedeker  indicates  and  the 
local  guide  welters  in,  Geneva  remains  a 
dull  place  for  other  than  a  brief  stay. 
Something  of  its  old  hard  Calvinistic  regime 
endures.  It  has  no  French  gaiety,  though 
it  is  so  near  France  and  is  in  many  things  so 
French.  Nor,  despite  its  size  and  impor- 
tance, does  it  vie  with  Lausanne  as  an 
intellectual  centre,  Perhaps  one  reason 
why  the  city  is  somewhat  in  disfavour  with 
foreign  residents  now  is  conveyed  in  a 
remark  made  to  me  by  a  depressed  hot  el - 
proprietor :  "  Too  many  anarchists  and 
such-like  come  here  to  live,  and  too  few 
watchmakers  go  away.  People  nowadays 
think  Geneva  does  nothing  but  turn  out 
millions  of  watches,  and  then  at  odd  times 
make  bombs  to  meet  the  international 
demand."  As  for  the  anarchists,  however, 
I  think  the  Genevese  have  little  affection 
for  their  company,  though  it  is  pleasant  to 
242 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

be  told  at  regular  intervals  that  one's  town 
is  the  true  Cosmopolis,  and  that  the  Genevese 
are  the  "  Birds  o'  Freedom  "  of  Europe. 
"  And  then,"  said  one  expostulating  res- 
taurateur indignantly,  "  they're  teetotalers 
to  a  man.  Why,  the  worst  of  the  lot,  that 
Russian  what  writes  about  a  red  dagger 
an'  a  bomb  as  his  signature,  he  feeds  on 
milk  and  sardines." 

The  abiding  attraction  at  Geneva  is  the 
magnificent  outlook,  from  the  superb  rush 
of  the  azure  Rhone  between  the  two  towns, 
to  the  ever-beautiful  vicinage  of  hills  and 
mountains  and  snow-white  Alps,  with  the 
crowning  glory  of  Mont  Blanc  visible  from 
many  a  busy  thoroughfare  as  well  as  from 
the  fascinating  quays,  the  Rhone -spanning 
bridges,  and  the  lovely  promenades  and 
environs. 

In  the  town  itself,  visitors  who  combine 
a  literary  pilgrimage  with  the  pursuit  of 
pleasure  commonly  divide  allegiance  be- 
tween Rousseau  and  Calvin  ..."  those 
two  disagreeable  people,"  the  remark  with 
which  Mr.  Clemens  casually  introduces  and 
summarily  dismisses  them,  in  that  humorous 
classic  of  his.  Certainly  one  should  go 
and  see  (the  somewhat  moulty  eagles  of 
Geneva,  like  the  bears  of  Berne,  must  be 
243 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

"  done  "  first,  I  am  told,  if  one  would  be  in 
the  run  of  popular  taste — so  let  one  see, 
and  then  leave,  the  Place  Bel  Air)  that 
venerable  cathedral  of  St.  Peter  whose 
towers  rise  so  impressively  from  old  Geneva, 
where  Calvin  preached  and  whence  John 
Knox  went  to  Scotland.  And  one  must 
visit,  of  course,  the  steep  and  somewhat 
malodorous  Grande  Rue,  and  look  at  the 
uninteresting  house -block,  on  one  floor  of 
which  the  great  Jean  Jacques  was  born 
(for  the  drift  of  evidence  is  against  the 
more  picturesque  house  on  the  right  bank 
of  the  Rhone,  now  known  as  No.  27  Rue 
Rousseau  .  .  .  where,  certainly,  Rousseau's 
grandfather  lived).  But  perhaps  for  most 
visitors  there  is  more  significance  in  the 
simple  chronicle  that  here,  in  Geneva, 
Calvin  died  and  Rousseau  was  born  ;  the 
harvest  was  spent,  the  new  seed  was  sown. 

Calvin  made  Geneva  the  Mecca  of  the 
Protestant  world.  But  it  is  safe  to  say  that 
if  the  Geneva  of  to-day  were  the  least  like  the 
Geneva  of  the  Calvinistic  regime,  Messrs. 
Thos.  Cook  and  Co.  might  close  their  much- 
frequented  office  in  the  Rue  du  Rhone.  For 
were  not  all  citizens  imperatively  required 
by  that  regime  to  be  out  of  bed  at  4  A.M.  in 
summer  and  at  6  in  winter  ?  And  was  not 
244 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

the  cuisine  ordained  to  the  hard-and-fast  ex- 
treme of  two  dishes,  "one  of  animal,  one  of 
vegetable  food,"  and  no  pastry  ?  As  for 
wine,  it  was  anathema.  Meanwhile,  the 
"  Consistoire "  looked  after  "  the  other 
morals."  To-day,  however — by  way  of  re- 
venge, I  suppose — Geneva  "  rises  later  " 
than  Paris  or  any  other  large  French  town, 
and  is  become  gastronomic,  not  to  say 
gourmandisiac  in  its  tastes  ;  while  as  for 
pastry,  that  lyrical  effervescence,  the  vers- 
de-societe,  the  exquisite  poetry  of  the 
culinary  art  (mixed  metaphor  goes  well  with 
the  mixed  mysteries  of  the  confectioner), 
one  may  seek  and  find  none  to  surpass  it 
between  the  Boulevard  St.  Germain  of  Paris 
and  the  Via  Vittorio  Emanuele  of  Milan. 
And  this,  the  grateful  visitor  must  recollect, 
is  in  great  part  due  to  Voltaire,  who  laughed 
away  so  many  drear  absurdities.  "  When 
I  shake  my  wig,"  he  wrote  from  Ferney, 
"  its  powder  dusts  the  whole  republic." 
And  more  powder  fell  at  Geneva  than 
anywhere  else.  Here,  and  in  these  respects 
at  least,  the  most  confirmed  anti- Voltairian 
will  admit  the  justice  of  that  famous 
summing-up  of  his  own  achievement,  "  J'ai 
fait  un  peu  de  bien :  c'est  mon  meilleur 
ouvrage" 

245 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

But  before  we  take  the  electric  car  out 
beyond  the  pretty  village  of  Grand  Seconnex, 
close  by  which  the  French  frontier  runs,  a 
mile  or  two  from  Ferney,  to  Voltaire's 
home,  a  reminiscence  of  two  of  another 
kind.  The  visitor  will  have  had  more  than 
sufficient  of  Calvin  ;  there  is  little  enough 
interest  in  seeing  the  more  or  less  authentic 
house  where  "  that  impudent  fellow,  Jean 
Jacques,"  was  born,  or  the  square  or  place 
where  "  Candide  "  and  the  "  Dictionnaire 
philosophique  "  of  "the  old  devil  of  Ferney  " 
were  publicly  burned ;  and  I  doubt  if 
there  are  many  visitors  who  care  to  find 
out  where  Amiel  was  born  some  eighty 
years  or  more  ago.  One  literary  tourist, 
indeed,  who  was  "  working  up  Voltaire 
and  that  lot  "  (a  rival,  I  thought  at  first, 
and  imitated  Brer  Rabbit  when  Brer  Fox 
was  around),  remarked  to  me  in  surprise 
that  he  thought  Amiel  was  a  book  written 
by  Stendhal  or  somebody,  or  perhaps  (he 
added,  as  an  afterthought)  was  "  the  pseu- 
donym of  Obermann  or  Henri  Beyle  or  one 
of  those  fellows."  But  in  those  lovely 
environs  of  Geneva  one  (if  that  way  inclined) 
could  not  be  better  than  take  the  Journal 
Intime  as  companion :  much  of  it  was 
written  there,  notably  at  Lancy  and  Van- 
246 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

dceuvres — from  which  latter,  I  may  add 
for  music -lovers,  Frederic  Amiel  went  one 
May-day  in  1857  to  near  tne  first  Per' 
formance  of  "  Tannhauser "  given  out  of 
Germany,  performed  at  the  Geneva  theatre 
by  a  passing  German  company,  and  wrote 
that  night  perhaps  the  subtlest  criticism 
of  Wagner's  music  yet  given  in  these  ensuing 
five-and-forty-years.  Either  by  the  hill- 
pastures  or  on  the  calm  waters  of  the  lake, 
no  "  literary  companion  "  wears  so  well  as 
the  Journal  of  this  famous  Swiss,  who 
knew  and  could  describe  the  mountains 
as  well  as  De  Saussure,  and  the  Rhone - 
stretch  and  Rhone -lake  as  well  as  Ruskin, 
and  the  whole  of  "  this  symphony  of 
mountains,  this  cantata  of  sunny  Alps,"  as 
well  as  "  our  common  ancestor  in  modern 
literature,"  Rousseau.*  But  if  one's  tastes 

*  "  Rousseau  is  an  ancestor  in  all  things.  It 
was  he  who  inaugurated  the  literary  pilgrimage 
afoot  before  Topffer,  reverie  before  Rene,  literary 
botany  before  George  Sand,  the  worship  of  nature 
before  Bernardin  St.  Pierre,  the  democratic  theory 
before  the  Revolution  of  1789,  political  discussion 
and  theological  discussion  before  Mirabeau  and 
Renan,  the  science  of  teaching  before  Pestalozzi, 
and  Alpine  description  before  De  Saussure  (and 
Ruskin).  He  formed  a  new  French  style,  the 
close,  chastened,  passionate,  interwoven  style  we 
know  so  well.  Nobody  has  had  more  influence 
247 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

are  not  that  way,  a  delightful  walk  or  sail 
along  the  right  shore  may  be  made  from 
Geneva  to  the  Villa  Diodati,  where,  as  well 
as  Manfred  (as  already  mentioned), 
Byron  wrote  the  third  canto  of  Childe 
Harold.  As  for  Geneva  itself  a  ad  its 
immediate  vicinage  I  can  think  of  nothing 
for  the  reader  able  to  understand  French 
comparable  to  the  fifty -seven  delightful 
stanzas  which  in  an  almost  unknown  book 
of  verse  Amiel  himself  calls  Guide  du 
Touriste  a  Geneve,  where  everything  of 
interest  is  mentioned,  from  the  Plainpalais 
to  the  site  of  La  Tour  Maitresse,  from 
"  nos  quais,  lignes  de  flamme  et  d'eau " 
to  the  Rocher  du  Niton,  off  the  lake -em- 
bankment of  the  Eaux  Vives, 

Ou  I'on  sacrifia,  dit-on, 
Au  dieu  Neptune  .  .  .  , 

from  the  Saleve  to  the  joining  of  the  turbid 
Arve  and  the  azure  Rhone, 

.  .  .  .  le  lieu 
Ou  I' Arve  gris,  le  Rhone  bleu, 

than  he  upon  the  nineteenth  century,  for  Byron, 
Chateaubriand,  Mme.  de  Stae'l,  and  George 
Sand  all  descend  from  him." — AMIEL  :  Journal 
Intime. 

248 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

Hymen  etrange, 
Joignent,  par  un  destin  brutal, 
Sans  les  m$ler,  I'un  son  cristal, 

L'autre  sa  fange. 

Of  more  modern  and  unfamiliar  associa- 
tions than  those  connected  with  Calvin  and 
Rousseau,  with  Voltaire  and  Byron,  I 
recall  none  more  interesting  than  those  wed 
to  the  names  of  George  Sand  and  Liszt. 

In  the  tenth  of  her  published  Lettres  d'un 
Voyageur,  George  Sand  gives  us  a  delightful 
account  of  her  sudden  departure  from 
Nohant,  her  rapid  journey  across  Eastern 
France  in  August  of  1837,  m  order  to  join 
the  Abbe"  Liszt  and  his  sister  at  Geneva, 
who  had  arrived  there  a  year  before  and 
ever  since  been  daily  awaiting  her  !  Arrived, 
astonishing  people  by  her  "  blouse  bleue 
et  ses  bottes  crottees,"  she  told  the  postillion 
to  drive  "  chez  M.  Liszt,"  when  ensued  the 
following  dialogue  : 

"  Liszt  ?  Who's  he  ?  What  does  he  do  ? 
What's  his  business  ?  " 

"Artiste  " — (this  shortly  and  conclusively). 

"  Veterinary  ?  " 

"  Bah,  you  must  be  in  need  of  such 
yourself,  animal  !  " 

At  this  point,  when  France  and  Switzer- 
land were  at  loggerheads,  a  passer-by 
249 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

intervened,  with  the  remark,  "  Ah,  I  know 
whom  you're  after.  .  .  .  He  is  a  fiddle- 
merchant.  ...  I  can  show  you  where  he 
lodges." 

The  quest,  however,  was  not  at  an  end. 
At  the  first  place  the  weary  traveller  was 
told  that  M.  Liszt  was  in  Paris  ;  at  the 
next,  London  was  specified  ;  at  the  next, 
Italy.  Finally,  at  the  latest  place  of  call, 
the  lady  found  a  note  from  the  musician's 
sister,  la  Comtesse  d'Agoult  (George  Sand's 
"  Princesse  Mirabelle  "),  saying  briefly  : 
"  We  have  long  waited  you  ;  you  take  your 
own  time  ;  and  now  we're  wearied  out. 
It  is  now  your  turn  to  seek  us  out,  for  we're 
gone." 

The  weary  and  disgusted  traveller  posted 
on  as  soon  as  possible,  and  ultimately  found 
herself  at  the  Hotel  Union  at  Chamounix. 
This  time,  instead  of  asking  for  Liszt  by 
name,  she  gave  a  description  of  the  person 
she  sought :  "A  man  in  a  short  blouse, 
with  long  and  dishevelled  hair,  a  cravat 
tied  in  a  knot,  more  or  less  limping  at 
present,  and  habitually  humming  the  Dies 
IYCB  in  a  light  agreeable  fashion  !  "  The 
description  was  unmistakable,  and  the 
fugitive  was  tracked. 

With  all  their  mutual  affection  and 
250 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

admiration,  each  doubtless  found  the  other 
somewhat  trying  at  times  :  the  lady, 
certainly,  had  her  ways.  For  example,  in 
her  Impressions  et  Souvenirs  there  is  an 
entry  :  "  Midnight,  January. — A.  has  just 
raised  a  scene  because  of  the  open  window. 
This  excellent  man  cannot  understand  that 
it  is  better  to  have  a  cold  in  his  head  than 
to  deprive  his  soul  of  a  sublime  joy  (i.e. 
contemplation  of  the  moon).  I  try  in  vain 
to  describe  to  him  this  quiet  enjoyment 
arising  from  contemplation.  He  is  en- 
raged .  .  ." 

It  was  in  this  hotel  that  Liszt  wrote  in 
the  visitors'  book  under  the  statutory 
headings  : 

QUALITY  :  Musician-philosopher. 
PLACE  OF  BIRTH  :  On  Parnassus. 
WHENCE  COME  :  From  Doubt. 
WHERE  GOING  :  To  Truth— 

and  that  George  Sand  described  herself  and 
party  as  "  lafamille  Piffoels  "  in  this  fashion  : 

NAME  OF  TRAVELLERS  :  The  Piffle  Family. 
DOMICILE  :  Nature. 
WHENCE  COME  :  God. 
WHERE  GOING  :  Heaven. 
PLACE  OF  BIRTH  :  Europe. 
251 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

QUALITY  :  Idlers. 

DATE  OF  PASSPORT  :  For  Ever. 

(lit.  Hire,  meaning  Voucher  and  Claim,  as  well  as 
its  other  meanings.) 

BY  WHOM  GRANTED  :  Public  Opinion. 

Neither,  it  will  be  seen,  suffered  from 
excessive  modesty. 

At  Geneva  itself  we  may  enjoy  a  de- 
lightful reminiscence  of  these  two  great 
ones  when  they  lived  in  an  hotel  by  the 
Rhone -side,  which  we  owe  to  Mme.  Lina 
Ramann.  "  Here,"  she  chronicles,  "  the 
Abbe  Liszt  used  often  to  extemporise, 
when  his  hands  wandered  over  the  white 
keys  with  that  delicate  mother-o' -pearl 
touch  of  his,  while  George  Sand  would  sit 
near  the  fire,  listening  attentively,  or  turning 
with  dreaming  eyes  and  looking  out  on  the 
magnificent  landscape  seen  through  the 
window,  while  her  mind  transformed  the 
master's  harmonies  into  her  own  poetic 
visions." 

It  was  here,  and  thus,  that  Liszt  com- 
posed, on  a  Spanish  air,  his  "  Rondo  Fantas- 
tique,"  which  he  dedicated  to  George  Sand. 
"  Shortly  after  he  had  composed  it,  the 
Abbe  played  it  one  autumn  evening  to 
George  Sand,  who  was  seated  in  the  twilight 
252 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

at  a  couch  by  the  window,  smoking  her 
cigarette.  Moved  by  the  music,"  adds 
Mme.  Lina  Ramann,  "  and  by  the  mur- 
murous wash  of  the  lake -water  along  its 
narrow  beaches,  she  gradually  let  her  mind 
weave  other  fantasies  born  of  the  'Rondo,' 
and  that  night  took  up  her  pen  and  wrote 
Le  Contrebandier :  Conte  lyrique.  Para- 
phrase fantastique  sur  un  Rondo  fantastique 
de  Franz  Liszt" 

But  now  for  Voltaire -land  and  the  lake- 
side home  of  Mme.  de  Stael. 

The  former  means  an  expedition  across 
the  frontier.  Ferney  (or  Fernex  as  generally 
printed  in  Switzerland)  used  to  be  somewhat 
inaccessible  for  the  ordinary  tourist  ;  now 
it  can  be  reached  swiftly  and  frequently  by 
an  electric  car,  which  leaves  Geneva  from 
just  off  the  Rue  du  Mont  Blanc,  opposite 
the  new  General  Post  Office.  A  pleasanter 
way  still,  however,  is  to  drive,  or,  except 
in  the  summer  heats,  to  walk.  But  to 
those  unhurried,  and  with  a  preference  for 
the  unbeaten  track,  I  would  recommend 
that  the  morning  or  forenoon  steamer  be 
taken  to  Coppet,  when,  after  a  stroll  through 
the  sleepy,  charming  village -town  and  a 
visit  to  Mme.  de  StaeTs  old  home,  one  can 
253 


The  Lake  oj  Geneva 

strike  across  a  charming  region,  visit  by  a 
detour  the  Villa  des  Delices,  where  Voltaire 
had  his  first  home  in  these  parts,  and  so 
come  upon  Ferney. 

To  the  lover  of  French  literature,  and  of 
genius  that  knows  no  geographical  limit,  a 
visit  to  Coppet  cannot  but  give  a  moving 
pleasure.  What  a  wonderful  woman  this 
Mme.  de  Stael  was  :  so  brilliant,  so  charm- 
ing, so  great  a  captain  of  the  intellectual 
forces  of  modern  Europe  !  One  may  turn 
to-day  from  Delphine  and  its  fellows  ;  even 
Corinne  may  seem  outworn  now,  with  all 
the  revelation  become  commonplace  and 
the  quick  life  gone  away  on  the  wind.  But 
her  influence,  which  was  so  great,  endured 
as  an  awakening,  a  moulding,  and  even  a 
directing  force  ;  though  it  is,  perhaps,  only 
since  Georg  Brandes'  fine  study  of  the 
intellectual  achievement  of  this  princess  of 
letters  that,  in  this  country  at  least,  she  has 
won  anything  like  adequate  recognition. 

To-day,  the  Coppet  manor-house,  with 
its  two  grey  towers,  and  the  near-by  chapel 
where  her  impatient  spirit  knew  rest  at 
last,  has  relatively  few  pilgrims  ;  but  these 
go  in  reverence  and  love. 

To  some  it  may  be  new  that  Mme.  de 
Stael's    mother,    when    Suzanne    Curchod, 
254 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

knew  Gibbon  well,  fell  in  love  with  him 
indeed,  and  even  fascinated  that  somewhat 
cold  and  irresponsive  student.  During  his 
four  years  of  absence  in  England,  between 
his  first  and  second  sojourn  in  Lausanne, 
she  remained  constant  ;  but,  on  his  return, 
not  even  Rousseau's  mediation  brought 
the  callous  historian  "  to  reason "  ;  not 
even  when  the  lady  finally  pleaded  that 
at  least  they  might  remain  friends  did  Gibbon 
relent,  for  he  declined  the  compromise  as 
"  dangerous  for  both." 

We  may  deplore  the  gentleman's  philo- 
sophic calm,  but  cannot  regret  the  fair 
Suzanne's  disappointment,  for  in  a  fit  of 
the  blues  she  married  M.  Necker,  afterwards 
to  become  Louis  XVI.'s  famous  Minister 
of  Finance  ;  went  to  Coppet  ;  and  bore 
to  her  husband  and  the  literary  world  of 
Europe  the  beautiful  girl  and  enchanted 
mind  whom  it  was  long  the  wont  to  allude 
to  as  "  Corinne."  There  can  be  no  doubt 
that  in  gaining  a  Mile.  Germaine  Necker 
by  losing  a  Miss  Gibbon  we  owe  a  big  debt 
to  the  Destinies. 

She  had  her  faults,  of  course,  this  brilliant 

woman,   and  in  her  work  as  in  her  life. 

Particularly  in  her  earlier  writings  she  is 

like   her   own   heroine   in   the   Histoire   de 

255 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

Pauline,  "  apt  to  pour  out  the  feelings  of 
her  young  and  tender  soul  in  an  incorrect 
but  extraordinary  style."  On  the  other 
hand,  I  can  recall  no  youthful  critical  effort 
more  mature  in  thought  and  expression 
than  her  admirable  Essay  on  Fiction, 
prefaced  to  the  two  volumes  of  Zulma, 
and  Other  Tales,  all  written  before  she  was 
twenty. 

It  was  here,  in  Coppet,  that,  in  the 
perilous  days  of  the  Revolution,  Mme.  de 
Stael  was  visited  by  so  many  famous  people, 
from  Sismondi  to  Byron.  Here  the  brilliant 
Benjamin  Constant  first  met  Mme.  Recamier, 
that  woman  so  beautiful  that  at  forty -three 
she  had  as  ardent  lovers  as  at  twenty - 
three,  and  even  when  seventy  and  blind 
was  found  by  the  great  Chateaubriand 
"  still  lovely  and  still  charming."  Mme. 
de  Stael  herself  had  this  unpassing  beauty, 
this  undying  youth  and  unfading  charm  ; 
and  has  herself  chronicled  her  "  passionate 
and  inappeasable  desire  to  be  loved." 
She  was  forty -five  when  she  fell  in  love 
with  and  married  the  successor  to  M.  de 
Stael -Hoist  ein — M.  Rocca,  a  handsome 
youth  of  three-and-twenty,  who  had  first 
attracted  her  attention  and  admiration  by 
pirouetting  and  leaping  his  black  Andalusian 
256 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

stallion  under  the  windows  of  the  house  in 
Geneva  where  she  was  then  staying. 

But,  poor  thing,  she  was  a  mondaine, 
and  longed  ever  for  Paris  and  the  excite- 
ments of  life.  To  her,  too  often,  this  lovely 
view  that  we  look  at  from  Coppet  to-day 
"  oppressed  her  with  its  inexorable  beauty 
and  maddening  calm." 

One  wonders,  though,  if  she  was  really 
happier  in  Paris  or  London,  or  here, 

Ou  Corinne  repose  au  bruit  des  eaux  plaintives. 

For  she  was  of  those  in  whom  life  is  in- 
tensified to  the  double.  But  Mme.  de 
Stael  and  London  !  .  .  .  some  will  wonder. 
Yes,  for  a  while,  she  had  her  salon  here. 
It  was  in  Argyll  Place,  Regent  Street 
(No.  30,  near  the  present  Union  Bank),  that 
in  her  hour  of  exile  she  "  received "  such 
mixed  if  brilliant  society,  that  Byron  said 
it  reminded  him  of  the  grave,  as  all  dis- 
tinctions were  levelled  in  it  ! 

But  what  about  "  le  vieux  diable  de 
Ferney  .  .  .  ou  est  cette  ame  infernale," 
as  a  contemporary  chronicler  politely  alludes 
to  Voltaire  ? 

Well,  Voltaire  and  Rousseau,  Gibbon  and 
Dickens,  the  gay  Dumas  and  the  irresistible 

iv  257  R 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

Tartarin,  and  company,  must  now  be 
diligently  sought. 

Besides,  I  bear  in  mind  the  apposite 
words  of  an  anonymous  scribe  of  1785, 
writing  upon  "  that  singular  man  Rousseau": 
"  There  is  scarcely  any  prejudice  more 
general  than  that  which  inclines  us  to 
believe  that  whatever  is  pleasing  to  ourselves 
must  necessarily  be  so  to  the  rest  of  the 
world.  This  desire,  improperly  indulged, 
not  only  fails  of  producing  the  wished-for 
effect,  but  is  often  followed  by  one  quite 
contrary." 

Again,  I  recollect  the  warning  of  that 
objectionable  elderly  Miss  from  Chicago, 
in  A  Tramp  Abroad,  who,  on  the  Geneva 
steamer,  remarked  incidentally :  "  If  a 
person  starts  in  to  jabber-jabber-jabber 
about  scenery  and  history  and  all  sorts  of 
tiresome  things,  I  get  the  fan-tods  mighty 
soon." 

And  no  self-respecting  writer  would  in- 
flict "  the  fan-tods  "  even  on  that  most 
genial  of  collective  beings,  the  Reader. 


Switzerland  a  crammed  caravanserai  in 
August  ?     Yes,  no  doubt.     And  yet  it  is 
constantly  maintained  that  English  visitors 
258 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

are  not  nearly  so  numerous  as  formerly, 
except  perhaps  at  Easter  and  other  popular 
holiday  seasons.  This,  however,  is  partly 
because  that  seventy  or  a  hundred  years 
ago  comparatively  few  "  ordinary  "  people 
travelled  for  pleasure,  except  English ; 
to-day  the  German  outnumbers  the  Britisher, 
not  only  in  Switzerland  but  along  the 
Italian  Riviera  and  North  Italy,  and  even 
as  far  south  as  Sicily.  There  is  at  least 
one  gain  in  this  :  it  is  not  "  the  inevitable 
English  "  one  hears  of  now,  but  "  these 
Germans  "  ;  and  it  is  some  consolation  to 
know  that,  in  every  country,  the  change 
is  hailed  with  most  sincere  regret,  for  the 
Teuton,  especially  the  Prussian  variety, 
is  nowhere  loved,  and  for  the  most  part  is 
scrupulously  avoided.  "  The  English  in- 
vasion "  began  with  the  freeing  of  Europe 
after  Waterloo  :  once  Napoleon  was  secure 
in  St.  Helena,  the  British  tourist  spread  in 
a  fertilising  (if  often  exasperating)  flood 
over  Western  Europe.  It  is  amusing  to 
find  that  even  then  "  the  superior  people  " 
resented  the  crowd.  In  the  delightful 
record  of  the  1819  Journey  of  Earl -Spencer- 
All -the -Talents  and  his  lively  Lady  Lavinia, 
recently  given  us  from  the  dame's  letters, 
we  find  the  complaint,  early  in  October, 
259 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

that  "  Geneva  is  as  full  as  it  can  stick  with 
English  "  ;     while    at    the    next    stopping  - 
place  the  sprightly  correspondent  writes  : 
"...  When  we  all  arrived,  extenuated  with 
fatigue,  we  were  favoured  with  a  thunder- 
storm. .  .  .  Quantities    of   English    every- 
where.    One  family  of  nineteen,  ten  children, 
here  yesterday."    The  lively  Lady  Lavinia 
must    have    been    an    amusing    person    to 
travel  with,  though  she  had  her  tempers 
(when    her    language    was    more    emphatic 
than    refined)    and    sometimes    must    have 
tried    the    patience    of    her    courtly    but 
pedantic   lord.     "  Ld    S.    has    made    some 
extraordinary    acquisitions    of    curiosity  s, 
which    I   have   heard   discussed   over   and 
over,    with    an    eagerness    which    always 
surprises   me,    for   the    duce   a   bit   can    I 
recollect  the  name  of  one  of  these  Treasures." 
And  Rome  found  her  no  more  amenable 
than  Geneva.     It  was  the  time  when  "  the 
antiquarian    circles "    were    much    excited 
over  the  excavations  in  the  Forum,  and  the 
leading    part    taken    by    the    Duchess    of 
Devonshire  ;   but  Lady  Spencer  showed  as 
little  respect  for  the  first  as  for  the  second, 
writing    of    the    lady    as    "  that    witch    of 
Endor,"  and  of  the  treasure  trove  as  "  old 
horrors." 

260 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

To  adapt  Gibbon,  my  readers  will,  I 
trust,  excuse  this  short  digression  :  "  the 
practice  of  celebrated  moralists  is  so  often 
at  variance  with  their  precepts."  For  I 
had  meant  to  begin  this  article  with  Voltaire, 
and  to  lead  off  with  that  admirable  motto 
of  his  :  "  Precision  in  thought  ;  concision 
in  style  ;  decision  in  life." 

Yes,  it  is  time  we  were  at  Ferney.  Not 
that  the  Voltaire  associations  with  Geneva 
itself  have  been  adequately  touched  upon  : 
it  would  take  a  volume  to  exploit  that  theme. 
And  then  those  lovely  vicinage  walks, 
especially  that  by  the  Saleve,  Lamartine's 
"  Saleve  aux  flancs  azures,"  and  its  memo- 
ries of  the  great  French  poet,  its  association 
with  those  Thursday  walks  recorded  by 
Edmond  Scherer  when  he  and  Amiel  and 
Victor  Cherbuliez  and  others  devoted  them- 
selves to  "  debauches  platoniciennes."  Here 
it  was  that  Amiel  found  those  ceaseless 
metaphors  of  beauty  which  give  so  great  a 
charm  to  his  prose — as  this,  at  the  tumul- 
tuous town -weir  of  the  Rhone,  where  the 
river  pours  like  a  melted  avalanche — 
"  This  standpoint  (of  ideal  vision)  whence, 
as  it  were,  one  hears  the  impetuous  passage 
of  time,  rushing  and  foaming  as  it  flows 
out  into  the  changeless  ocean  of  eternity," — 
261 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

where  he  wrote  so  many  of  those  lovely 
if  almost  wholly  ignored  poems,  of  which  I 
give  one,  adventuring  by  its  side  a  poor 
translation  : 

APAISEMENT 

Partout  le  regret  ou  I'inquietude, 

Partout  le  souci  : 
Toujours  la  tristesse  et  la  solitude, 

Et  le  deuil  aussi  I 
Ou  fteurit  I'espoir  ?  ou  verdit  la  palme  ? 

Ou  croit  le  bonheur  ? 
Ou  cueillir  la  joie  ?     Ou  trouver  le  calme  ? 

Ou  poser  son  cceur  ? 
L'or  ni  le  savoir,  le  vin  ni  les  roses, 

L'art  ni  le  del  bleu, 
N'emplissent  le  cceur  ;  et  deux  seules  choses 

L'apaisent  un  peu  : 
C'est  d'abord  un  cceur  fait  pour  lui,  qui  I'aime 

Et  qu'il  nomme  sien, 
Et  puis  une  voix  au  fond  de  lui-meme 

Qui  lui  dise  :  Bien  ! 


SOLACE 

Regret,  disquietude, 

And  weary  care  : 
Grief,  melancholy,  solitude 

Everywhere  ! 
Where  blossoms  Hope  ? 

Where  blooms  Life's  palm  ? 
Happiness  .  .  .  joy  .  .  . 

O  heart  .  .  .  or  calm  ? 
262 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

Nor  wine  nor  gold 

Nor  art  nor  the  blue  sky 
Bring  peace  to  this  sad  fold, 
Bring  but  this  quiet  sigh — 
A  heart  to  hold  my  love, 

A  heart  its  love  to  tell !   .  .  . 
Then  from  the    depths    shall  this  low  whisper 

move, 
"  Soul,  it  is  well." 

Well,  when  "  Obermann  "  came  back  one 
July  from  Paris  or  Fontainebleau  to  Switzer- 
land, he  begins  his  letter,  "  II  n'y  a  pas 
1'ombre  de  sens  dans  la  maniere  dont  je 
vis  ici "  :  and  in  like  fashion,  when  I 
consider  what  extent  of  "  literary  geo- 
graphy "  I  have  to  cover  in  this  article, 
I  say  to  myself  that  there  is  no  shadow 
of  sense  in  the  manner  in  which  I  hark 
back  to  Geneva  ! 

As  I  wrote  a  few  pages  back,  one  may 
come  upon  Ferney  either  from  Geneva  by 
the  frontier  village  of  Grand  Seconnex,  or 
by  the  lake -steamer  to  Coppet,  and  thence 
afoot  by  way  of  Voltaire's  earlier  residence, 
the  Villa  des  Delices,  and  Les  Charmilles. 

To  approach  the  home -farm,  so  to 
say,  of  this  great  agriculturist  of  the  mind, 
this  strenuous,  mocking,  earnest,  laughing,- 
eager,  jibing  sower  of  good  and  evil  seed, 
is  indeed  an  experience  for  any  one  versed 
263 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

in  the  great  ways  of  literature.  Voltaire 
the  man  may  no  longer  wear  that  aureole 
woven  of  the  wonder  and  admiration  of  a 
startled,  scandalised,  but  fascinated  Europe  : 
Voltaire  the  publicist  may  be  ignored, 
Voltaire  the  romancist  be  spoken  of  rather 
than  read,  Voltaire  the  dramatist  be  (de- 
servedly) forgotten,  Voltaire  the  historian 
be  shelved,  Voltaire  the  autocrat  of  letters 
be  discredited.  There  is  enough  left  to 
keep  his  fame  alive,  apart  from  the  great, 
the  unparalleled  tradition  of  the  supreme 
place  and  influence  he  won  and  so  long  held. 
If  everything  else  of  his  perished,  the 
volumes  of  his  correspondence  would  suffice 
to  justify  the  legend  of  his  supremacy. 
What  a  wonderful  old  man,  this,  who 
laughed  at  everything,  and  yet  had  unselfish 
enthusiasms  impossible  to  the  Gibbon  who 
decried  him  and  the  Napoleon  who  hated 
him  !  And  apart  from  all  else,  Voltaire 
lives  as  an  abiding  quality,  as  an  in- 
tellectual tradition.  He  is  the  high -priest 
of  irony.  "  Always  walk  laughing  in  the 
road  of  truth,"  he  writes  in  one  of  his  letters 
to  D'Alembert.  Once  it  was  the  fashion, 
and  in  this  country  in  particular,  to  class 
him  with  MephistophelesT("  why  drag  in 
Mephistqpheles  ? — Voltaire  is  the  original 
264 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

Satanic  name,"  was  doubtless  the  unex- 
pressed thought  of  many)  ;  but  later  and 
fuller  knowledge  reveals  "  le  vieux  diable 
de  Ferney  "  as  a  man  who  wore  a  mocking 
smile  as  our  forefathers  wore  a  wig,  and 
carried  the  air  of  the  cynic  and  the  infidel 
as  the  beau  of  that  day  carried  a  cane  : 
at  heart  sound,  a  giant  mind,  a  nature 
perverse  but  fundamentally  fine. 

Among  the  innumerable  books  written 
about  Voltaire,  I  doubt  if  any  affords 
more  revelation  of  the  man  than  the  little 
volume  published  in  the  Year  X  (i.e.  1802), 
entitled  Soirees  de  Ferney.  I  re-read  this 
delightful  book  one  wet  and  stormy  spring 
evening  at  Ferney,  at  the  amusing  if 
not  particularly  attractive  Hotel  de  la 
Truite.  As  the  rain  came  in  sudden  noisy 
whispers,  with  the  wind-eddies  abruptly 
rising  or  falling,  I  fancied  I  heard  the 
ghosts  of  many  old  laughters,  many  cries 
of  anger,  and  half-real,  half-mocking  la- 
mentations, many  half-solemn,  half-blas- 
phemous derisions.  And  looking  in  the 
leaping  flame  of  the  wood-fire  I  dreamed  I 
saw  a  withered  old  face — cynical,  ironical, 
vain,  great  in  intellect,  and  behind  the 
mocking  eyes  a  spirit  of  love  and  charity 
and  good-will. 

265 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

"A  good  deal  of  it  all  was  tomfoolery  " 
(c'etait  de  la  petite  charlatanerie).  There 
we  have  Voltaire.  "  Below  all  my  raillery 
there  has  ever  been  the  anger  at  evil,  the 
cry  for  justice,  the  passion  of  an  idea." 
There  also  we  have  Voltaire.  And  he  sums 
up  both  when  he  says  somewhere,  "  For  all 
that,  I  was  not  born  more  wicked  than  any 
one  else,  and  at  bottom  I'm  not  a  bad 
fellow "  (quoique  je  ne  sois  pas  ne  plus 
malin  qu'un  autre,  et  que  dans  le  fond  je 
suis  bonhomme).  But  he  would  not  be 
Voltaire  if  his  last  words  were  not,  "  For 
some  thirty  or  forty  years  I  took  everything 
seriously,  and  was  a  fool  for  my  pains.  I 
have  finished  by  laughing  at  everything."  ' 

"  What  is  the  Voltairian  spirit  in  ordinary 
life  ?  "  some  one  asked  me  the  other  day. 

"  Audacity  that  hits  the  mark,"  I 
answered. 

"  Such  as  .  .  .  ?  " 

But  not  remembering  at  the  moment 
"  la  phrase  juste,"  and  recollecting  an 
apposite  anecdote,  I  answered  :  "A  great 
lady  once  replied  to  the  third  Napoleon, 
shortly  before  he  appropriated  the  vacant 
throne  of  France,  when  he  had  with  an 
ironical  smile  asked  her  to  explain  the 
difference  she  drew  between  '  an  accident ' 
266 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

and  '  a  misfortune  '  : — '  If,'  she  said, 
1  you  were  to  fall  into  the  Seine,  that  would 
be  an  accident  ;  if  they  pulled  you  out 
again,  that  would  be  a  misfortune.'  ' 

An  American  transcriber  published  a 
volume  of  the  Humour  of  Voltaire.  But 
humour,  as  we  understand  it,  is  no  charac- 
teristic of  his.  His  wit  is  keen,  poignant, 
sometimes  cruel,  generally  a  lash — even 
when  it  laughs  it  bites.  When  he  is  alluding 
somewhere  to  "  the  soul  "  and  our  hope  of 
immortality,  he  adds,  "  I  am  persuaded 
that  if  the  peacock  could  speak  he  would 
boast  of  his  soul,  and  would  affirm  that  it 
inhabited  his  magnificent  tail."  He  is 
nearer  humour  when,  in  a  well-known 
tale,  he  has  :  "  '  A  little  wine,  drunk  in 
moderation,  comforts  the  heart  of  God  and 
man.'  So  reasoned  Memnon  the  philo- 
sopher ;  and  he  became  intoxicated."  Of 
wit  his  very  spirit  was  made  ;  fun  he  had 
in  plenty — not  of  the  Dumas  or  Dickens 
genial  kind,  not  of  Daudet's  brilliant  bur- 
lesque, not  of  Mark  Twain's  sly  drollery, 
but  a  perverse,  amusing,  often  convincing 
and  always  fascinating  fun  of  his  own. 
But  he  had  nothing  of  that  pawky  humour 
which  we  consider  so  essentially  northern, 
as,  for  example,  that  story  of  the  unco' 
267 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

cautious  Scot  who  always  emptied  his 
glass  at  a  gulp  because  he  "  once  had  one 
knocked  over." 

Not  that  "the  ecstasy  of  the  incongruous  " 
did  not  appeal  to  him.  One  can  imagine 
his  sarcastic  reticence  if,  in  writing  on 
heroism  in  modern  life,  he  had  lived  long 
enough  to  be  able  to  illustrate  the  narrative 
with  that  duel  between  Dumas  and  Jules 
Janin — when  Janin  would  not  fight  with 
swords  because  he  knew  an  infallible  thrust, 
and  Dumas  refused  pistols  because  he  could 
kill  a  fly  at  forty  paces,  and  so  the  foes 
embraced  !  Or  his  mocking  delight  if,  in 
writing  on  the  sincerity  of  ideals,  he  had 
lived  long  enough  to  supplement  that  wicked 
"  Conversation  "  of  his,  concerning  Ossian, 
between  an  Oxford  professor,  a  Florentine, 
and  a  Scot,  at  Lord  Chesterfield's,  with  the 
episode  of  how,  under  the  Directory,  persons 
near  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  were  one  day 
alarmed  to  see  a  great  blaze  among  the 
trees,  and  on  coming  close  perceived  some 
men  "  attired  in  Scandinavian  fashion " 
endeavouring  to  set  fire  to  a  pine  tree,  and 
singing  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  guitar 
with  an  air  of  inspiration — merely  admirers, 
as  it  proved,  of  Ossian,  who  intended  to 
sleep  in  the  open  air,  and  to  set  a  tree 
268 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

alight  in  order  to  keep  themselves  warm, 
and  thus  emulate  the  people  of  Caledonia  ! 
(Thus  Mons.  Texte,  in  his  able  and  sug- 
gestive work  on  The  Cosmopolitan  Spirit 
in  Literature.) 

Voltaire  had  pre-eminently  the  genius  of 
repartee.  None  more  than  he  would  have 
rejoiced  in  that  cutting  rejoinder  of  the 
elder  Dumas  to  Balzac,  when  the  two  great 
men  were  brought  together  at  the  house 
of  a  well-meaning  friend.  After  neither 
had  spoken  a  word  to  the  other,  Balzac  was 
about  to  leave,  when  he  said  viciously  : 
"  When  I  am  written  out  I  too  shall  take  to 
writing  dramas." 

To  which  Dumas  at  once  replied  :  "  You'd 
better  begin  at  once,  then  !  " 

But  .  .  .  Well,  no  ;  this  has  become  a 
series  of  "  buts,"  like  that  dialogue  of  "  buts  " 
between  Don  Inigo-y-Medroso-y-Comodios- 
y  -  Papalamiendos  and  the  Englishman 
(whom  the  good  Bachelor  Don  Papalami- 
endos imagined  an  anthropophagus)  in  our 
great  man's  tale  of  The  Sage  and  the  Atheist. 

Some  time  ago  a  doubtless  worthy  but 
certainly  bigoted  individual  perpetrated  a 
booklet  on  Voltaire.  One  of  the  deadly 
sins  he  adduced  was  that  "  this  Scoffer 
incarnate  "  stole  his  name,  "  like  all  else." 
269 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

It  is  quite  true  that  Fran 9013  Marie  Arouet, 
in  a  crude  anagram,  evolved  the  name  his 
genius  adopted  and  made  immortal.  But 
to  keep  on  speaking  of  Mons.  Arouet  is 
more  pedantic  than  to  allude  invariably  to 
Bacon  as  Lord  Verulam.  As  for  Voltaire's 
standing  unique  in  this  iniquity,  it  is 
enough  to  cite,  among  other  famous  instances, 
Montesquieu,  whom  no  one  knows  now  as 
Charles  Secondat,  Jean  Chauvin,  known  to 
us  as  Calvin,  or  Moliere,  whose  actual  name 
of  Jean  Baptist e  Pocquelin  is  long  for- 
gotten. 

When  one  thinks — at  Lausanne  (Monrion), 
at  Tournay,  and  still  more  at  Aux  Delices, 
and  above  all  at  Ferney — of  what  Voltaire 
achieved  merely  in  quantity  of  work,  one 
stands  amazed.  Even  at  an  age  when 
most  men  are  content  to  (or  at  least  eager 
to)  "  cultivate  their  cabbages,"  Voltaire 
maintained  lightly  and  set  himself  heroically 
to  tasks  overmuch  for  ninety-nine  men  out 
of  a  hundred  in  the  fulness  of  youth.  Some 
idea  of  this  may  be  gathered  from  the  fact 
that  after  he  was  sixty -four  he  published 
some  forty  volumes  ;  or,  to  put  it  another 
way,  he  issued  in  the  last  twenty  years  of 
his  long  life  some  twenty-eight  works, 
apart  from  many  long  and  short  tales, 
270 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

pieces  in  verse,  miscellanies.*  However, 
we  cannot  dwell  upon  his  achievements  : 
we  are  but  pilgrims  to  where  he  lived  and 
worked.  If  one  is  alert  to  the  irony  of 
changing  circumstance  one  may  stand  on 
the  shore  at  Coppet,  or  on  the  high  road  to 
Grand  Seconnex,  and  look  over  or  back  to 
Geneva,  and  recognise  that  the  same  town 
burned  Voltaire's  most  famous  books,  and 
received  him  with  adulation  when  he  drove 
city-wards  in  his  coach-and-six  ;  for  long 
sedulously  decried  him  as  an  evil,  and  now 
as  sedulously  cultivates  him  as  an  important 
commercial  asset.  The  value  of  his  work 
and  the  extent  of  his  influence  have  been 
exaggerated  by  many  who  have  written 
about  both  ;  they  have  been  more  grossly 
underrated  by  the  ignorant  and  the  pre- 
judiced. In  one  direction,  at  least,  I 
think  no  one  has  so  keenly  perceived  and 

*  The  reader  interested  in  Voltaire  may  care 
for  these  particulars  :  8  vols.  of  the  Dictionnaire 
philosophique,  and  5^  of  the  6  of  the  Philosophie  ; 
more  than  a  vol.  of  the  Melanges  litteraires,  2 
vols.  of  the  Mel.  historiques,  and  2  of  the  Dialogues  ; 
i  vol.  of  the  Hist,  de  Parlements  de  Paris  ;  the 
several  vols.  of  the  Facetice  ;  2%  of  the  3  of  La 
Politique  et  la  Legislation  ;  3  vols.  of  Comments 
sur  les  (Euvres  Dramatiques ;  Peter  the  Great ; 
The  Age  of  Louis  XV.;  8  vols.  Correspondence. 
271 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

tersely  stated  the  relative  distinctions  as 
the  great  historian  Michelet,  when  he  wrote, 
"  Montesquieu  ecrit,  interprete  le  droit  ; 
Voltaire  pleure  et  crie  pour  le  droit  ;  et 
Rousseau  le  fonde." 

When  1  was  at  Coppet  on  a  previous 
occasion  I  found  in  the  salon-de-lecture 
of  the  Hotel  du  Lac  the  discarded  or  lost 
MS.  diary  of  "  a  travelling  miss."  I  copied 
one  entry  :  "  Madame  de  Stael  was  a  dear. 
Her  portrait  as  Sappho,  by  David,  at  the 
chateau,  *s  sweet.  Voltaire  is  an  old  horror. 
He's  always  laughing  at  one,  and  looks  a 
wicked  old  fright,  and  Dan  says  he's  the 
same  in  his  books." 

The  effervescent  miss  and  the  more 
reserved  Dan  represent  the  great  public. 
The  sentiment alism  of  "  Corinne  "  keeps 
her  memory  sweet,  and  there  are  tears  and 
sighs  at  Coppet.  The  continual  irony  of 
Voltaire  discomposes,  and  refuge  is  taken 
in  the  first  available  car  back  to  Geneva. 

The  Villa  aux  D£lices  of  Voltaire's  day 
is  not  the  Villa  aux  Delices  of  to-day. 
The  beautiful  site  is  the  same,  near  the 
confluence  of  the  Rhone  and  the  Arve, 
with,  as  Voltaire  wrote,  twenty  leagues 
of  Alp  beyond,  and  Geneva  on  the  lake -side 
across  the  narrowing  waters :  "  And  I 
272 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

can  see  from  my  window,  as  I  write,  the 
quarters  where  Jean  Chauvin,  the  Picard 
called  Calvin,  reigned,  and  the  spot  where 
he  burned  Soret  for  the  good  of  his 
soul." 

Here  and  at  Ferney  Voltaire  entertained 
royally  :  "for  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century," 
he  wrote,  "  I  have  been  the  aubergiste  of 
Europe."  Condorcet,  D'Alembert,  Diderot 
— everybody  visited  him  who  was  anybody  : 
kings,  princes,  philosophers,  poets,  writers 
of  all  kinds  and  every  nation,  statesmen, 
women  of  genius,  women  with  beauty, 
women  without  either  genius  or  beauty  but 
uplifted  by  this  fad  or  that  vogue,  exiles, 
patriots,  rogues,  the  sorrowful  and  hopeless, 
the  hopeful  and  unprincipled  :  "  All  ways 
lead  to  Ferney,  as  to  Rome."  In  his  cor- 
respondence we  see  him  in  all  his  Protean 
changes,  from  modesty  (rare) — as  when, 
from  Tournay,  he  wrote  to  M.  de  Pregny, 
"I,  a  labourer,  a  shepherd,  a  rat  retired 
from  the  world  into  a  Swiss  cheese  " — 
to  fantastic  grandiosity,  as  when  he  wrote 
to  the  Due  de  Richelieu,  "  I  have  succeeded 
in  converting  a  miserable  and  unknown 
hamlet  into  a  charming  town,  and  in 
founding  a  commerce  which  embraces 
America,  Africa,  and  Asia  "  !  All  the  same, 

iv  273  s 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

he  worked  wonders  at  Ferney.  The  place 
bloomed.  Here  Voltaire  wrote,  talked,  read, 
posed,  corresponded  almost  beyond  credible 
limits  ;  but  here  also  he  lived  the  life  of  a 
country  squire,  interested  in  agriculture, 
forestry,  breeding,  dairy -produce,  farm- 
produce.  He  desired  to  be  a  French 
Virgil,  and  wrote,  "  I  enjoy  my  tranquil 
occupations,  my  ploughs,  my  bulls, 
my  cows."  Not  a  day  passes,  writes 
a  friend,  one  Bachaumont,  that  M. 
Voltaire  does  not  "put  out  children  to 
nurse,"  which  is  his  expression  for  plant- 
ing trees.  He  even  bred  horses,  with 
the  comment  that  "as  so  much  has  been 
written  about  population  I  will  at  least 
people  the  country  with  horses,  not  ex- 
pecting the  honour  of  propagating  my 
own  species." 

"  I  am  going  to  reside  at  Ferney  a  few 
weeks,"  wrote  Voltaire  to  D'Alembert  in 
November  1758.  The  stay  extended  till 
February  1778,  nearly  twenty  years.  To- 
day Ferney  is  all  Voltaire  :  his  memory 
is  its  sustenance.  The  village -town  is 
pleasant  ;  the  environs  are  delightful,  the 
near  hills  lovely,  the  lake  and  the  Alps  are 
within  easy  reach.  But  to  enjoy  Ferney 
one  must  be  Voltairien.  He  smiles,  mocks, 
274 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

allures,  enchants,  repels,  amuses,  wearies, 
at  every  step — one  cannot  escape  him. 
The  kitchen  wench  and  the  boots  at  the 
Hotel  de  France  or  the  Hotel  de  la  Truite 
are  in  a  Voltairian  conspiracy.  One  has 
one's  lake -trout  a  la  Candide,  chicken -legs 
au  diable  de  Ferney,  Rosbif  au  Pierre  le 
Grand,  Tarte  aux  Delices  ;  one  goes  to  sleep 
with  the  murmur  of  The  Sage  and  the 
Atheist — one  wakes  to  the  whisper  of 
Memnon  the  Philosopher.  The  chateau, 
where  he  lived  and  worked,  the  chapel 
(now,  alack  !  fallen  from  its  holy  estate) 
with  its  famous  inscription,  "  Deo  erexit 
Voltaire,"  the  room  where  he  slept,  the 
study  where  he  wrote  so  many  of  his 
twenty -eight  tragedies  and  twelve  or  more 
comedies,  the  shrine  which  is  said  to  enclose 
his  heart  ("  His  Spirit  is  everywhere,  but 
his  heart  is  here  "),  the  avenues  wherein 
he  walked,  the  village  church  where  once  he 
appeared  as  Mahomet  cursing  the  super- 
stitious Savoyards  of  the  Rhone  (as  Pastor 
Gaberel  relates),  the  garden,  of  which  little 
remains  now  save  his  hedge  of  evergreens, 
where  he  strolled  as  the  Autocrat  of  the 
Metropolis  of  Esprit,  as  the  Public  Exas- 
perator  and  the  private  good  genius  and 
generous  benefactor,  as  the  Thinker  and 
275 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

Poet,  as  the  Pope  of  Literature,  and  as 
(for  a  brief  season,  to  the  laughing  amaze- 
ment of  Paris)  "  Brother  Frangois,  unworthy 
Capuchin  "—one  may  see  all  these,  and  look 
at  the  quaint,  old,  smiling,  ironical  face 
of  the  bronze  bust  in  the  Place,  or  at  that  of 
Lambert's  statue  erected  in  1890,  and  think 
one  has  "  done  it  all."  But  there  is  no 
escape  from  Voltaire  till  one  has  fled  from 
Ferney.  "  He  is  in  the  air,"  as  Mark 
Twain  remarks  of  the  thousand-odoured 
smell  of  Cologne. 

True,  much  is  gone.  The  chapel  is  in 
disuse,  and  the  famous  theatre  (beyond  Les 
Delices  and  Les  Charmilles,  at  the  hamlet 
of  Chatelaine)  is  now  a  store.  Neverthe- 
less we  may  draw  the  line  at  the  remark 
of  a  Plymouth  Brother,  who  by  some  wild 
irony  of  fate  wrote  an  account  of  a  visit 
to  Ferney  :  "  Ruin  and  desolation  sit 
around,  and  we  wondered  how  many  Abels 
have  fallen  victims  to  this  one  bold,  bad 
man." 

Well,  Voltaire  would  have  smiled  genially, 
and  we  may  follow  his  example.  How 
could  our  Plymouth  Brother  understand 
an  elderly  gentleman,  who,  instead  of  being 
a  pillar  and  a  churchwarden,  admitted, 
"It  is  true  I  laugh  and  quiz  a  good  deal : 
276 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

it  does  one  good,  and  holds  a  man  up  in 
his  old  age." 

And  now  for  Lausanne,  an  hour  or  two 
away  through  a  charming  region.  But 
having  written  so  much  of  Voltaire  I  must 
say  no  more  of  his  residence  here  and  at 
Tournay  ;  nay,  I  find  I  must  make  pem- 
mican  of  the  "  as  much  and  more  "  I  had 
noted  in  connection  with  Rousseau.  On 
the  other  hand,  like  Gibbon  at  Lausanne 
and  Bonnivard  at  Chillon,  Rousseau  is  the 
prey  of  the  guidebooker.  "  La  Nouvelle 
Heloi'se  "  is  exploited  by  Baedeker,  Joanne 
and  Company  with  the  methodical  monotony 
of  the  chronicle  of  hotels  and  pensions, 
"  objects  of  interest,"  and  "  walks  in  the 
neighbourhood."  From  Lausanne  to  Vevey, 
from  Vevey  to  Montreux,  and  above  all  at 
Clarens,  the  unwary  tourist  is  caught  in  a 
Rousseau  net,  wanders  in  a  Heloi'sian  maze. 
He  hears  (generally  for  the  first  time)  of 
Saint  Preux  and  Milord  Edouard,  of  the 
heart -adventures  of-  Claire  and  Julie,  and 
he  makes  pathetically  arduous  efforts  to 
visit  the  scenes  "  immortalised  "  by  these 
persons  of  whom  he  may  never  have 
heard,  in  whom  he  takes  no  interest,  and 
of  whom  he  hopes  in  his  soul  never  to  hear 
again. 

277 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

To  know  Rousseau  aright  one  must 
know  the  history  of  modern  literature. 
He  is,  above  all  other  "  moderns,"  "  the 
sower  of  ideas,  a  discoverer  of  sources  " — 
"  and  observe,"  adds  Amiel  (that  close  and 
unprejudiced  thinker),  "  that  all  the  ideas 
sown  by  Rousseau  have  come  to  flower." 
But,  with  Amiel  in  the  instance  of  Emile, 
one  will  often  return  to  him  or  first  come 
to  him  with  dissappointment,  for  much 
that  he  wrote  is  bald  and  jejune,  no  grace, 
no  distinction,  the  accent  of  good  company 
wanting. 

Rousseau,  of  course,  is  king  of  the 
countryside  from  Lausanne  to  Montreux  ; 
and  with  old  or  recent  knowledge  of  his 
writings,  and  notably  the  Confessions  and 
La  Nouvelle  Heloise,  the  visitors  to  this  end 
of  Geneva -lake  may  have  many  days  of 
delightful  hillside  and  shore -way  rambles, 
and  particularly  in  the  lovely  inlands 
reaching  behind  Vevey,  Clarens,  and  Charnex. 
At  Vevey,  if  the  Rousseau-pilgrim  will 
penetrate  behind  the  Market,  he  will  see  a 
house  known  as  "At  the  Sign  of  the  Key  " 
("A  la  Clef")  with  the  inscription  that 
the  great  Jean  Jacques  resided  here  in 
1732  ;  while  readers  of  the  Confessions 
will  remember  his  writing,  "  J'allai  a  Vevey, 
278 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

loger  &  la  Clef.  .  .  .  Je  pris  pour  cette 
ville  un  amour  qui  m'a  suivi  dans  tous  mes 
voyages."  There  may  be  many  who  agree 
with  Jean  Jacques  in  his  love  for  this  much- 
visited  place  ;  for  myself,  if  seems  to  me 
the  least  attractive  of  the  Geneva -side 
resorts,  for  all  its  glorious  views.  "  It 
is  stuffy,  dusty,  and  triste"  wrote  Turgeniev 
once,  and  I  fancy  a  good  many  will  endorse 
the  "  impression "  of  the  great  Russian 
writer.  Perhaps  the  spirit  of  Obermann, 
triste  enough  in  all  conscience,  has  taken 
possession  of  the  place  ;  for  here  and  in  the 
neighbourhood  De  Senancour  wrote  much 
of  that  famous  but  now  practically -ignored 
book,  remembered  by  English  readers  rather 
for  Matthew  Arnold's  fine  poem  inspired 
by  it  than  for  itself.  He,  too,  as  Amiel, 
as  Rousseau,  found  Vevey  a  place  of  charm  : 
"It  is  at  Vevey,  Clarens,  Chillon  to  Ville - 
neuve,"  he  writes,  "  that  I  find  the  lake 
in  all  its  charm  and  beauty."  For  one,  I 
do  not  feel  that  the  sadness  of  the  author 
of  Obermann  was  the  controlled  sadness  of 
sanity,  but  an  intellectual  dyspepsia.  His 
mind  needed  open  windows,  sunlight  and 
fresh  air,  vistas  ;  his  spirit  like  his  body 
needed  exercise,  a  variegated  diet,  a  little 
dissipation  perhaps.  We  are  repelled  by 
279 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

the  incessancy  of  that  "  intolerable  void  " 
which  in  the  fourth  section  of  his  most 
famous  book  he  says  he  finds  everywhere ; 
and  surely  most  of  his  readers  can  have  but 
half-hearted  sympathy  with  one  who  of 
set  purpose  seeks  "  that  condition  of  toler- 
able well-being  mixed  with  sadness  which  I 
prefer  to  happiness."  Obermann  has  been 
called  "  the  brooding  spirit  of  the  Vaud." 
I  do  not  think  the  Canton  de  Vaud  would 
relish  the  compliment.  It  is  the  liveliest 
and  brightest  of  the  Swiss  cantons,  and 
though  a  learned  philologist  has  demon- 
strated that  Vaud  is  at  the  root  identical 
with  Wales  and  Walloon,  it  will  generally 
be  admitted  that  the  Swiss  claimant  to 
the  old  Celtic  name  has  more  of  Walloon 
light -heartedness  and  Welsh  love  of  song 
and  company  than  of  Welsh  gloom  and 
Walloon  melancholy. 

At  Lausanne  itself  the  chief  literary 
association,  of  course — for  the  Anglo-Saxon 
traveller  at  least — is  Gibbon.  But,  apart 
from  what  has  been  already  written  of  him 
in  this  Geneva  chronicle,  is  not  every 
visitor  "  primed  "  with  Gibbon  before  the 
train  slides  midway  into  the  hillside  town  ? 
Does  he  not  know  all  that  he  cares  about 
the  life  of  Gibbon  there,  and  the  whole 
280 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

story  of  "  the  closing  scene  "  of  the  great 
history  ?  He  can  purchase  a  "  Gibbon 
pen "  or  "  Gibbon  pipe,"  he  can  have 
coffee  at  the  sign  of  the  "  Philosopher," 
or  dine  at  the  sign  of  the  "  Historian  "  ; 
the  youngest  generation  of  Lausannians 
(Lausonians,  Lausanneges  —  an  ignorant 
outsider,  I  would  not  discriminate  among 
these  and  others)  have  even  a  hard  and 
perilous  "  lollipop "  called,  for  some 
mysterious  reason,  boules-a-Gibbon. 

So,  rather,  let  me  guide  a  few  to  the 
pleasant  eastern  residential  quarter,  where 
there  is  now  a  Dickens  Avenue  or  Street, 
and  the  house  where  our  great  novelist 
lived  for  a  time,  and  wrote  all  or  the  greater 
part  of  Dombey  and  Son,  longing  the  while 
for  the  life  and  movement  and  inspiration 
of  the  London  streets,  feeling,  with  an  aching 
nostalgia,  that  a  hundred  hours  of  Cockaigne 
were  better  than  a  cycle  of  the  Canton  de 
Vaud. 

Coming  to  Lausanne  by  the  waterway, 
one  lands  at  Ouchy,  its  port — a  charming 
place,  and,  as  many  think,  superior  to 
Vevey,  though  each  has  its  own  advantages 
and  disadvantages.  Byron  enjoyed  his  stay 
at  the  Anchor  Inn  here  :  and  many  a  wit 
and  poet  and  famous  scribe,  from  Voltaire 
281 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

and  Rousseau  to  Gibbon  and  Goethe,  from 
Dumas,    that    great    laugher,    to    our   own 
genial    Dickens    and   the    smiling    creator 
of  Tartarin,  have  lingered  at  this  out-of- 
the -season -delightful  spot.     There  is  a  local 
legend  that  a  great  French  wit  died  here  in 
a   feverish   delirium   induced   by   his   own 
witticisms.     I  sought  in  vain  the  tomb  of 
the  great  unknown  ;   in  vain,  even,  for  any 
authentic  trace  of  the  legend.     But  we  all 
know  the  delightful  floating  foam  of  anony- 
mous wit  on  the  wide  sea  of  the  French 
genius  ;    and  who  can  affirm  that  a  lord  of 
irony  did  not  take  refuge  here,  and  perished 
nobly    (and    unfortunately    in    silence)    as 
indicated  ?     Many  must  have  long  desired 
to  know  the  source  of  anonymous  modern 
aphoristic   wisdom   such   as,    "Marriage   is 
ennui  felt  by  two  persons  instead  of  one."  .  .  . 
' '  There  is  a  magic  in  the  word  duty,  which 
sustains  magistrates,  inflames  warriors,  and 
cools    married    people."    ..."  For    one 
Orpheus  who  went  to  Hell  to  seek  his  wife, 
how  many  widowers  who  would  not  even  go 
to  Paradise  to  find  theirs  !"..."  Of  all 
heavy  bodies,  the  heaviest  is  the  woman  we 
have  ceased  to  love."  ..."  The  last  Census 
of  France  embraced  nearly  twenty  millions 
of  women.     Happy  rascal  !  "     And  perhaps 
282 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

the  infamous  wretch  lies  unhonoured  and 
unsung  at  Ouchy  ! 

Does  the  lover  of  the  impressionable 
Dumas  remember  his  pleasure  when,  on 
landing  at  Ouchy,  with  a  touch  of  that 
home -sickness  on  arrival  at  new  places  so 
characteristic  of  the  French,  he  was  greeted 
with  proud  delight  by  a  compatriot,  in 
whom  at  last  he  recognised  a  young  exile 
named  Allier,  who  thenceforth  acted  as  his 
cicerone  at  Lausanne  and  the  neighbour- 
hood ?  "  Le  grand  et  cher  Alexandre " 
was  welcome  everywhere,  and  no  wonder  : 
he  radiated  good-humour  wherever  he  went, 
was  "  bon  camarade  "  with  the  host,  the 
head  waiter,  the  cook,  the  chambermaid, 
and  the  "  boots  "  at  every  hotel  he  visited. 
Of  his  many  experiences  in  this  region  but 
a  single  citation,  however,  can  be  made 
here.  Scene,  Martigny,  across  the  lake 
beyond  Villeneuve,  up  the  Rhone  valley. 
It  was  at  the  hotel  here  that  he  made  those 
surprising  economies  of  his,  the  thought 
of  which  beforehand  made  travel  seem  so 
feasible,  the  recollection  of  which  after 
return  to  Paris  made  him  re-echo  the  lament 
of  Ecclesiastes,  "  Vanity  of  vanities  ;  all 
is  vanity."  One  plan  was  to  economise 
with  dinner,  then  at  Swiss  hotels  usually 
283 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

four  francs.  He  achieved  this  by  invariably 
eating  six  francs  worth,  and  so  bringing  the 
final  outlay  down  to  two  francs  !  And 
above  all  there  is  the  famous  episode  of  the 
bear- steak  !  The  landlord  gave  him  a 
table  apart,  and  solemnly  informed  him 
that  he  was  to  have  all  to  himself  "  a 
beefsteak  of  bear."  But  even  Dumas, 
after  "  preliminaries,"  was  startled  by  the 
magnitude  of  the  viand  placed  before  him, 
and  at  first  had  a  qualm  or  two.  Then  he 
set  to,  and,  later,  summoned  the  landlord 
to  express  his  satisfaction.  It  was  then  he 
learned  that  the  "  bifsteck  d'ours  "  ought 
to  be  even  better  than  usual,  for  ...  had 
it  not  been  nourished  by  the  huntsman 
Guillaume  Mona,  who  had  recently  found 
his  quiet  grave  in  the  interior  of  Bruin  ! 
From  that  landlord  and  that  table  Dumas 
precipitately  fled. 

But  at  the  Vevey-Montreux  side  of  the 
lake  an  even  greater  than  Dumas  the 
voyageur  is  to  be  remembered — who  but 
the  immortal  Tartarin  !  Chillon  is  again  a 
shrine  for  the  pilgrims  who  follow  in  the 
steps  of  the  mighty.  Just  as  Bonnivard's 
damp  cell  was  almost  becoming  "  a  devil 
without  the  tail,"  as  the  Spaniards  say, 
and  Byron's  lines  apt  to  be  met  by  the 
284 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

same  complacent  smirk  as  greets  the  evidence 
of  Rizzio's  remaining  blood-spot  at  Holy- 
rood,  Alphonse  Daudet  came  to  the  rescue 
with  Monsieur  Tartarin  of  Tarascon.  Among 
the  inimitable  things  of  modern  humour 
is  the  account  of  the  arrest  of  "  the  killer 
of  lions  "  and  that  Provencal  Ananias, 
Bompard  ;  their  imprisonment  in  Chillon, 
and  how  Tartarin  conducted  himself  there  ; 
and  the  subsequent  adventures  of  the  pair 
till  the  supreme  irony  of  their  unexpected 
meeting  at  Tarascon. 

But,  alack  !  there  must  be  an  end.  And 
just  as  Dumas  and  Tartarin  were  a  welcome 
relief  after  De  Senancour  and  Obermann, 
so  again  it  is  a  pleasure  to  recur  to  the 
graver  note  of  that  deepest  and  most  abiding 
of  all  the  modern  influences  associated 
with  the  Lake  of  Geneva — the  sometimes 
too  saddening,  the  often  melancholy,  but 
always  beautiful  and  fascinating  master- 
piece of  Amiel,  written  by  these  lovely 
shores  during  the  long,  outwardly  silent 
life  of  one  of  the  most  remarkable  of 
modern  spiritual  and  intellectual  types. 
His  tomb  is  at  Clarens,  where  perhaps 
it  will  be  visited  when  the  Nouvelle 
Heloise  is  at  last  faded  from  the  minds 
of  men. 

285 


The  Lake  of  Geneva 

CE  QUI  SUFFIT. 

Paix  et  pen 

L' ombre  et  Dieu, 

Calme  et  reve, 
N'est  ce  pas,  O  mon  cceur, 
N'est  ce  pas  le  bonheur, 
Et  le  bonheur  sans  treve  ? 

There  we  have  Amiel  himself,  in  his 
lifelong  desire.  And  in  these  closing  words, 
also,  as  well  as  in  the  finer  breath  of  this 
lovely  lake,  these  sentinel  Alps,  a  message 
for  one  and  all :  "A  last  look  at  this  blue 
night  and  boundless  landscape.  Jupiter 
is  just  setting  on  the  counterscarp  of  the 
Dent  du  Midi.  From  the  starry  vault 
descends  an  invisible  snow-shower  of  dreams. 
Nothing  of  voluptuous  or  enervating  in 
this  nature.  All  is  strong,  austere,  and 
pure.  Good-night  to  all  the  world  !  .  .  . 
to  the  unfortunate  and  to  the  happy. 
Rest  and  refreshment,  renewal  and  hope  : 
a  day  is  dead — vive  le  lendemain  !  " 


286 


PART  II 
THREE  TRAVEL-SKETCHES 


THROUGH  NELSON'S  DUCHY 
1903 

THE  great  Sicilian  estates  of  the  Duchy 
of  Bronte,  which  came  to  Lord  Nelson  along 
with  the  title  of  Duke  just  a  hundred  and 
four  years  ago,  have  a  capital.  This  capital 
is  not  the  mountain-town  which  gives  the 
title,  but  the  ancient  castle  of  Maniace, 
standing  in  the  hollow  of  a  vast  mount ain- 
surrounded  plateau,  covered  with  the  im- 
memorial lavas  of  Etna,  and  watered  by  the 
Sime'to,  the  classic  Symaithos.  To  write 
the  history  of  the  Castello  di  Maniace 
would  be  to  undertake  an  arduous  volume. 
Nine  hundred  years  ago  part  of  these  time- 
worn  walls  leaned  over  Symaithos'  grey- 
green  rushing  flood,  and  in  the  intervening 
ages  they  have  seen  much.  To-day,  the 
present  Duke  of  Bronte — in  the  English 
peerage,  Viscount  Bridport,  Nelson's  re- 
presentative through  the  female  line — owns 
these  wide  lands  which  Nelson  won  through 
a  King's  gratitude.  Here  Moor  and  Norman 
have  ruled  ;  here  the  Norse  Vikings  under 
iv  289  T 


Through  Nelson's  Duchy 

Harold  Hardradr,  afterwards  King  of 
Norway,  helped  to  defeat  a  Saracen  host, 
and  the  Greek  general  Maniaces  (from  whom 
the  castle  derives  its  name)  made  his  sword 
a  terror  to  the  Paynim.  Here  pilgrims 
from  afar  came  to  venerate  St.  Luke's 
legendary  painting  of  the  Madonna — now 
replaced  on  the  high  altar  of  the  beautiful 
Norman  chapel  at  Maniace.  Here,  ages 
before,  came  and  went  the  Roman  armies, 
or,  before  these,  the  swift  soldiery  of 
Carthage,  or  the  wandering  legions  of 
Hellas  or  Magna  Grsecia — or  Greek  travellers 
to  the  inland  sanctuaries  of  Kentoripa 
(Centuripa,  now  Centorbi)  or  sacred  Enna 
(now  Castrogiovanni — locally  and  more 
correctly  Castr'janni — from  the  Arabic 
Kasr-Yani,  itself  a  corruption  of  Enna,  the 
citadel  of  Enna) ;  or  Greek  traders  to 
the  chain  of  Hellenic  ^Etnean  towns,  from 
Tissa — of  whose  very  existence  we  know 
only  from  a  chance  allusion  in  Cicero — to 
Hadranon  or  Hadranum,  with  its  Fane  of 
Hadranos  guarded  by  a  thousand  hounds, 
and  to  Hybla  Minor,  ancient  Sikelian 
strongholds  before  they  became  Graeco- 
Sicilian  settlements,  and  now,  as  since  the 
Middle  Ages,  known  as  the  towns  of  Aderno 
and  Paterno. 

290 


Through  Nelson's  Duchy 

One  of  the  great  landowners  of  England 
boasts  that  he  has  possessions  which  were 
once  in  the  fee  of  Harold,  the  last  of  the 
Anglo-Saxon  kings.  What  is  that  to  the 
boast  of  a  Duke  of  Bronte,  who  can  say 
that  Theocritus  may  have  wandered  thus 
far  up  the  Symaithos  ;  that  down  from 
yonder  hills  came  Demeter  looking  for  her 
daughter  Persephone  ;  that,  according  to 
a  local  legend  Persephone  herself  dis- 
appeared in  the  high  shallow  lake  between 
Maniace  and  Randazzo  ;  and  that  Empe- 
docles  climbed  this  stupendous  northern 
flank  of  Etna  which  towers  over  the  region 
of  inland  Sicily  with  vast  and  menacing 
supremacy  ? 

As  a  guest  at  the  hospitable  castle  of 
Maniace,  I  have  thrice  visited  these  Sicilian 
highlands,  and  on  two  of  these  visits  my 
stay  was  one  of  several  weeks  :  and,  again 
as  these  visits  have  been  in  autumn  and 
winter  and  spring,  I  may  claim  to  have 
some  knowledge  of  that  wonderful  region 
in  all  its  aspects  save  those  of  the  blazing 
summer,  when  the  encircling  mountains 
are  as  the  slopes  of  a  brazen  furnace,  and 
along  the  whole  vast  serpentine  strath, 
from  the  piana  of  Maletto  to  the  Gates  of 
the  Sime'to,  the  malaria  broods  or  stealthily 
291 


Through  Nelson's  Duchy 

climbs,   more  deadly  than  any  dragon  of 
ancient  mythology. 

And  now,  as  I  write  here,  I  find  myself 
listening  to  three  persistent  sounds  which 
reach  me  through  the  open  window  :  though 
it  is  so  still  in  the  gardens  below  that  I 
can  hear  the  continuous  indeterminate 
murmur  of  the  bees  in  the  dense  borders 
of  the  large  and  fragrant  Sicilian  amaryl- 
lides,  so  still  that  the  floating  fumes  of 
roses  and  violets,  of  heliotrope  and  the 
long  clustered  spires  of  medlar  and  lemon  - 
cina,  rise  undrifted  by  the  least  eddy  of 
air,  an  invisible  smoke  of  sweet  odours. 
The  most  compelling  of  these  sounds  is 
also  the  nearest.  It  is  the  monotonous 
rush  of  swift  water  over  a  stony  bed — 
sometimes  broken  and  multitudinous,  some- 
times fluent  and  swift  as  a  mill-race.  This 
is  the  Sime'to  .  .  .  that  Symaithos  so  loved 
of  the  poets,  and  by  whose  goat -pastures, 
in  the  sunny  regions  south  of  the  bat- 
haunted  gorges  a  few  miles  below  Maniace, 
many  a  Sicilian  idyl  has  been  lived  as  well 
as  made  and  sung  since  Theocritus  com- 
posed his  musical  Dirge  on  Daphnis, 
or  wedded  to  poignant  and  unforgettable 
words  the  love -broken  heart  of  poor 
Simaetha. 

292 


Through  Nelson's  Duchy 

The  second  sound  is  the  sighing  of  the 
far-off  wind  among  the  mountain -forests 
of  the  Serraspina  and  Serra  del  Re,  the 
vast  woods  of  the  Duchy,  which  swell 
over  crests  of  four  and  six  thousand  feet  ; 
or  among  the  chestnuts  and  last  olives  in 
the  hill  and  valley  of  the  torrent  of  the 
Saracens,  or  the  dwarfed  oaks  and  tortured 
ilexes  on  precipitous  and  freaked  Rapite — 
a  mountain  rising  to  the  west  of  the  Bronte 
vinelands,  with  a  general  contour  and 
serrated  crest  which  would  at  once  recall 
to  any  Scot  of  the  west  country  the  fantastic 
summit  of  Ben  Arthur  in  Argyll  ("  The 
Cobbler  "). 

The  third  sound  is  not  so  easy  to  describe. 
It  is  the  refrain,  vibrating  a  long  way  on 
the  stilled  air,  of  a  chant  of  the  vintagers, 
a  mile  or  more  down  the  Sim£to  course, 
beyond  the  Boschetto  with  its  droves  of 
black  pigs  and  gaunt  sheep,  where  the 
immense  Bronte  vineyards  flourish  under 
the  continual  hawk-like  vigil  of  Monsieur 
Fabre,  the  Provencal  overlord  of  these  wild 
Sicilian  mountaineers,  who  gain  their  living 
by  these  multitudinous  little  stunted  plants. 
It  is  impossible  at  this  distance  to  say 
what  this  wailing,  musically -monotonous 
chant  is.  Perhaps  it  is  one  of  these  Sicilian 
293 


Through  Nelson's  Duchy 

hymns  of  la  Madunnuzza,  with  swelling 
chorus  of 

Santa  Matri,  Santa  Matri  !  ,  ,  , 
Guarddti  all'  omu  di  la  campia  ; 
or, 

Cu  la  pad  di  Ddi' !  viva  Maria  /  .  .  . 

Lu  Pair'  A  ternu  sempri  arringrazziammu  !  * 

or  one  of  those  characteristic  folk-songs, 
as  of  the  poor  peasant  who,  when  he  finds 
things  going  from  bad  to  worse,  prays  to 
Sant'  Erasmo  in  his  rude,  stammering 
Sicilian, 

Aiu  un  franciullo,  e  un  bbarduinu  sulu, 

Lassdtimi  lu  sceccu,  ca  mi  campa, 

E  piggiativi  'scanciu  lu  figgiulu, 

Ca  ppi  tri  ggiorna  v'addumu  'na  lampa. 
[I  have  a  child,  and  only,  now,  this  little  ass  : 
leave  me,  then,  the  beast  that  wins  me  my  day's 
bread,  and  take  in  exchange  my  little  son,  and  I 
vow  that  for  three  days  a  lamp  shall  burn  at  thy 
shrine  !] 

*  These  couplets  of  invocation  to  the  Virgin 
and  of  blessing  on  the  Eternal  Father  are,  I  may 
add,  far  more  legible  than  Sicilian  generally  is. 
Here,  for  example,  are  the  first  four  lines  of  one 
of  the  popular  sonnets  of  Alessio  Di  Giovanni 
(A  Lu  Passu  di  Giurgenti),  which  I  may  leave  to 
readers  who  know  Italian  to  puzzle  out  ! : 

Jira  u  mmiaggiu  agghiiri  a  Bbillafranca 
'Nzimmula  cu  'n  cumpagnu  scappuccinu  .  . 
Ca  ddd  vidiatu  sulu  irvazza  bbianca 
E  rruvetta,  e  unni  cc'era  lu  caminu. 
294 


Through  Nelson's  Duchy 

But  more  likely  the  wild  cadence,  that 
already  has  ceased,  or  floated  away  from 
here  on  ^some  breath ^of  wind,  is  that 
extraordinary  chant  of  benediction  which 
these  Sicilian  Highlanders,  suddenly  throwing 
down  their  spades  or  other  implements  and 
raising  their  arms,  cry  out  in  honour  of  the 
Duchino  *  whenever  he  happens  to  appear 
among  them,  either  with  M.  Fabre,  or  by 
himself,  lines  that  in  effect  run, 

O  holy  and  Blessed  Mary, 
Our  Lady  and  Protectress  in  Heaven, 
Bless  the  hand,  bless  the  hand,  bless  the  hand 
That  gives  us  food  ! 

Down  in  the  Sahara,  and  among  the 
wild  gorges  of  the  Atlas,  I  have  heard  the 
Arab  or  Berber  muleteer  wailing  a  chant 
somewhat  similar  in  sound,  but  in  no 
European  land  have  I  heard  anything 
more  strange,  barbaric,  indescribably  alien 
and  remote. 

If  I  rise  and  go  to  the  window,  to  the 
right  I  look  out  beyond  the  near  gardens 

*  The  Duchino  .  .  .  the  young  Duke — i.e.  the 
Honble.  Alex.  Nelson  Hood  di  Bronte,  the  son 
of  Viscount  Bridport,  Duca  di  Bronte,  who  has 
given  the  best  years  of  his  life  to  the  administration 
of  the  Duchy,  and  to  whom  so  much  of  its  pros- 
perity is  due. 

295 


Through  Nelson's  Duchy 

and  the  great  columnar  poplars,  beneath 
which  winds  the  noisy  Sim£to,  splashing 
along  its  rock  and  boulder -strewn  sinuous 
course,  with,  beyond,  the  fantastic  peaks 
of  Rapiti,  and,  northward,  those  "  long 
ridges  of  the  hills "  of  which  Theocritus 
speaks  in  the  eighth  idyl.  Or,  better,  I 
can  go  from  my  room  into  the  great  central 
corridor  of  Maniace  (a  museum  of  beautiful 
and  interesting  things,  from  lovely  jars, 
antique  Greek  sculptures,  rare  Graeco- 
Sicilian  casts,  and  a  veritable  Nelson 
museum  of  articles  of  all  kinds  besides  every 
engraving,  coloured  print,  and  the  like, 
associated  with  the  great  admiral)  and  from 
the  balcony  at  this  north  end,  overhanging 
the  rushing  grey-green  flood  (sometimes 
a  thin  swift  stream,  sometimes  a  raging 
torrent),  look  beyond  the  castellated  walls 
on  to  the  lonely  hill -pastures,  and  see  a 
Daphnis  of  to-day  "  following  his  kine," 
and  a  Menalcas  of  to-day  "  shepherding  his 
flock " — and  one  at  any  rate  will  have 
"  a  pipe  with  nine  stops,  fitted  with  white 
wax,  and  smoothed  evenly."  And  among 
the  almonds  yonder,  round  the  first  steading 
beyond  the  water-course,  "  the  birds  that 
cry  beautifully  among  the  thick  leaves  " 
may,  if  it  be  spring,  be  heard  now,  as  in  the 
296 


Through  Nelson's  Duchy 

days  of  Moschus'  lament  for  Bion  ;  or  the 
cry  of  the  quail  or  omnipresent  magpie 
may  be  heard  from  the  lentisk  bushes,  then 
as  now  "  a  plant  of  this  land,"  as  Theocritus 
wrote  in  his  idyl  of  Pentheus,  though  then 
he  had  the  Theban  groves  in  his  mind  rather 
than  these  Sicilian  highlands. 

Or  I  may  walk  to  the  other  end  of  the 
long  corridor,  and  through  the  drawing- 
room  and  music-room  to  the  dark  oak- 
wainscoted  breakfast -room,  and  lean  from 
one  of  its  windows  and  look  at  Etna 
towering  close  by :  may  look  on  some 
such  scene  as  limned  in  Empedocles  on 
Etna  : 

The  track  winds  down  to  the  clear  stream, 
To  cross  the  sparkling  shallows  :  there 
The  cattle  love  to  gather,  on  their  way 
To  the  high  mountain-pastures,  and  to  stay, 
Till  the  rough  cow-herds  drive  them  past, 
Knee-deep  in  the  cool  ford  ;  for  'tis  the  last 
Of  all  the  woody,  high,  well-watered  dells 

On  Etna 

gla  de, 

And  stream,  and  sward,  and  chestnut  trees, 
End  here  ;  Etna  beyond,  in  the  broad  glare 
Of  the  hot  moon,  without  a  shade, 
Slope  behind  slope,  up  to  the  peak,  lies  bare  ; 
The  peak,  round  which  the  white  clouds  play. 

Only,    to-day,    Etna   is    dazzling   white   in 
297 


Through,  Nelson's  Duchy 

snow  for  the  last  four  or  five  thousand 
of  its  eleven  thousand  feet,  rising  in  a 
gradual,  sweeping,  majestic  cone  from  the 
Syracusan  shores  and  the  Hyblaean  Mount  ; 
and  these  nothern  flanks  are  filled  with 
violet  shadow,  and  not  a  cloud  is  visible 
there  or  anywhere  in  the  immensity  of 
down -swimming  azure — though  from  the 
four -mile -round  cirque  of  the  crater-sum- 
mit rises  a  vast  slowly  spiral  columnar 
mass  of  steam,  which  I  am  told  is  not, 
as  I  think,  merely  hundreds  of  feet  in 
height,  but,  at  the  least,  probably  over 
two  thousand. 

The  bell  in  the  great  courtyard  clangs, 
and  I  know  that  it  is  time  to  start  for  the 
long  drive  to  Bronte,  where  my  host  has 
one  of  his  ever  recurrent  legal  cases  to 
attend  to — for  in  this  still  only  half- 
civilised,  Mafia-ridden,  brigand-haunted 
country  the  people,  individually,  com- 
munally, and  regionally,  are  extraordinarily 
combative  both  in  aggression  and  in  the 
defence  of  real  and  imaginary  wrongs. 

I  have  driven  this  upper  mountain  road 
many  times,  and  yet  every  time  the  scenery 
is  different,  and  the  marvellous  region 
seems  never  staled  either  in  the  fascination 
of  its  impressive  physiognomy  of  in  its 
298 


Through  Nelson's  Duchy 

compelling  charm,  at  once  more  singular 
and  more  variegated  (especially  in  spring 
or  in  the  marvellous  golden  St.  Martin's 
Sleep,  "  the  time  of  the  south-flying  cranes  ") 
than  anywhere  else  even  in  Sicily. 

There  is  an  ancient  chapel,  which  opens 
from  the  courtyard,  just  before  the  colonnade 
of  the  front  exit.  This  church,  dedicated 
to  "  the  Mother  of  God  "  (but  before  the 
specific  worship  of  the  Virgin  was  ordained, 
not  to  "La  Madre  di  Dio,"  but  simply 
to  "  Santa  Maria  "),  is  not  of  as  ancient 
foundation  as  the  original  building  of 
what  is  now  the  Castello,  though  it  dates 
back  some  seven  centuries.  The  original 
fort  and  hamlet  of  Maniace  date  from 
about  A.D.  1032,  when  the  Greek  general 
Maniaces — "  First  Sword-Bearer  and  Master 
of  the  Palace  of  Michael,  Emperor  of  Con- 
stantinople," and  by  that  imperial  prince 
created  Overlord  of  Sicily — gained  his 
triumph  over  the  Saracen  host,  on  the 
slopes  yonder  on  the  north  side  of  the 
Sime'to.  To  consecrate  the  town  and  com- 
memorate the  victory,  there  was  sent  ^  from 
Byzantium  the  celebrated  and  much  vene- 
rated painting  of  the  Virgin  by  St.  Luke 
the  Apostle.  The  better  to  preserve  this 
treasure,  a  Benedictine  monastery  was 
299 


Through  Nelson's  Duchy 

founded  (now  the  Castello  of  to-day)  in 
11 73  by  Queen  Margaret,  widow  of  William 
the  Bad,  and  it  was  she  who  dedicated 
the  chapel  to  Santa  Maria.  It  was  the  son 
of  this  Queen,  William  the  Good,  who 
raised  that  most  superb  triumph  of  sacred 
art  in  all  Sicily,  the  splendid  cathedral  of 
Monreale  above  Palermo,  and  so,  naturally, 
he  placed  the  lesser  under  the  jurisdiction 
of  the  greater.  To  this  day  the  people  on 
the  Maniace  lands  believe  that  the  treasure 
of  Queen  Margaret's  jewels  lies  buried 
"  an  arrow's  flight  "  from  the  Castello. 
Last  spring,  when  a  flood  washed  away 
part  of  the  north  bank  of  the  Sim£to, 
near  the  vine -lands,  and  disclosed  a  series 
of  ancient  tombs,  it  was  hoped  the  treasure 
— or  a  treasure  ! — might  be  found.  Alas  ! 
after  days  of  exploration  all  we  discovered 
was  some  skulls  and  bones  which  we  could 
not  tell  to  be  Norman  or  Saracen  or  Greek 
or  Sicilian  (since  adjudged  earlier  still, 
Sikelian),  a  number  of  very  strong  teeth, 
and  one  little  gold  earring  ! 

The  chapel  is  small  and  insignificant. 
The  most  interesting  thing  about  it  is  the 
admirable  fantastic  carving  on  the  capitals 
of  the  pillars  which  support  the  obtusely 
pointed  arches  of  the  fine  old  Norman 
300 


Through  Nelson's  Duchy 

portal.  Inside  it  is  bare,  even  for  a 
Sicilian  church  :  so  bare  that  it  has  not 
even  a  "  confessional  " — what  serves  that 
purpose  being  a  small  movable  metal 
screen  (like  a  potato-scraper)  with  half  a 
yard  of  red  cloth  hanging  down  one  side  ! 
During  the  time  that  the  much  revered  paint- 
ing by  St.  Luke — certainly  in  any  case  a 
most  interesting  and  fine  example  of  the 
earliest  Byzantine  art — had  been  removed 
to  the  Castello,  the  chief  object  of  adoration 
for  the  hill  peasants  who  assemble  here  for 
mass  on  Sunday  mornings  was  the  tomb  of  a 
famous  Abbot  of  Maniace  known  to  good 
Catholics  as  the  Blessed  William — not 
Saint  William,  for,  alack  !  as  I  was  informed, 
his  friends  are  too  poor  to  pay  for  his 
Sanctification  !  This  Blessed  William  won 
fame  by  adventuring,  alone  and  unarmed, 
among  a  band  of  Saracens  (probably  Arab 
corsairs  from  Tunis)  who  happened  to  be 
raiding  the  region,  in  order  to  convert  them 
there  and  then.  The  heathen  proved 
obdurate,  and  added  insult  to  this  injury 
by  mockery.  The  holy  Abbot  forthwith 
seized  a  peasant's  donkey  that  was  among 
the  spoil,  "  removed  "  one  of  its  hind-legs, 
and  with  this  Sicilian  substitute  for  the 
Samsonian  jawbone  put  to  rout  the  heathen 
301 


Through  Nelson's  Duchy 

marauders.  Having  accomplished  this 
heroic  deed,  he  performed  the  much  more 
surprising  feat  of  replacing  the  leg  on  the 
unfortunate  donkey.  In  his  haste  he  put 
it  on  askew,  so  that  the  donkey  was  practi- 
cally reduced  thereafter  to  three  legs  ; 
but  what  did  that  matter,  compared  with 
the  living  testimony  of  the  miracle  thus 
afforded  ?  The  Blessed  William  now  lies 
at  rest  under  the  altar,  and  the  Maniace 
peasants  must  comfort  his  soul,  if  he  ever 
wakes,  by  the  unswerving  loyalty  of  their 
veneration. 

There  was  another  Abbot  of  Maniace, 
who  might  more  truly  be  called  infamous 
than  famous.  Down  beyond  the  Sime'to 
one  of  the  vineyards  is  still  called  after  him, 
the  Vigneto  Borgia.  The  ecclesiastic  in 
question  was  Roger  Borgia,  who  afterwards 
became  the  terrible  Pope  Alexander  VI. 
When  I  first  visited  Maniace  I  hoped  to 
find  that  a  papal  ghost  haunted  its  ancient 
precincts,  but  though  the  Castello  does 
boast  a  spectre  it  has  nothing  to  do  with 
the  Borgias,  being  a  kind  of  useless,  un- 
legended  creature,  a  sort  of  genius  loci, 
somewhat  eccentric  in  appearance  and  habit, 
but  wholly  unobtrusive  and  inoffensive. 

It   is   only   a   portion,    however,    of   the 
302 


Through  Nelson's  Duchy 

ancient  convent  and  court  which  stands 
to -day,  for  a  terrible  earthquake  some  two 
hundred  and  ten  years  ago  brought  the 
older  Maniace  to  a  heap  of  ruins. 

It  is  a  lovely  ascending  drive  along  the 
fine  road  made  by  the  "  signori  Inglese." 
To  the  left  are  the  rocky  but  cultivated 
lava -lands,  with  a  few  sheep,  donkeys,  and 
wigwam -like  huts  to  lift  the  scene  to  the 
semblance  of  inhabited  country.  Beyond, 
across  the  great  valley,  rise  the  mountain 
lands  of  the  Serraspina,  and,  overtopping 
these,  the  vast  beech-woods  of  the  Serra  del 
Re,  one  of  the  chief  sources  of  revenue  on  the 
immense  Bronte  estates.  In  front,  after  a 
winding  ascent,  Etna  again  comes  into  view, 
majestic  beyond  all  power  of  words  to  de- 
scribe, solemn  in  snow-white  beauty  for  the 
last  two  or  three  thousand  feet,  and  sombre 
with  purple  shadow  in  the  huge  bulk  of  its 
northern  flank.  In  the  nearer  and  lower 
foreground  rises  the  conical  shaft  of  the 
Rock  of  Maletto,  which  has  saved  the  small 
town  of  the  same  name  from  slipping  off 
the  hillside,  and  also  diverted  from  it  the 
dreaded  lava-torrents  which  at  times  have 
poured  along  these  terrible  volcanic  courses. 
All  the  wild  desolate  country  we  see  stretch- 
ing away  to  the  left  is  buried  in  lava — in 
303 


Through  Nelson's  Duchy 

spring  lovely  in  a  wilderness  of  yellow 
spurge  and  gold  and  purple  crocus.  Some 
idea  of  the  prolonged  disaster  of  a  lava- 
eruption  when  it  reaches  the  cultivated 
lands  may  be  had  from  the  fact  that  the 
great  lava -flood  of  1879,  which  swept  this 
region,  still  emitted  a  heavy  steam  after  a 
shower  of  rain  some  five  years  later,  and  ten 
years  later  was  still  hot  a  few  yards  from 
the  surface.  It  was  in  this  desolate  region, 
lying  between  Maniace  or  Maletto  and 
the  mediaeval  town  of  Randazzo,  some 
fourteen  miles  eastward,  that  the  Saracen 
host  was  routed  by  Maniaces  and  Harold 
Hardradr  and  his  Norwegians.  And  that 
glittering  space  yonder  is  the  malarious 
Lake  of  Gurrida,  by  which  was  once  a  lost 
Greek  town,  with  a  shrine  of  Demeter, 
and  in  whose  waters,  a  local  legend  says, 
Persephone  disappeared  in  the  arms  of 
the  Lord  of  the  Underworld.  This  stream 
that  suddenly  leaps  from  the  lava  comes 
from  Gurrida,  after  falling  away  into 
subterranean  passages.  It  is  the  land 
of  Myth,  and  one  realises  easily  here 
how  the  old  legends  arose.  To-day, 
there  is  no  "  life  "  by  the  malarious 
shores  of  Gurrida,  save  the  grey  lizard, 
the  drumming  snipe,  and  the  musically 

304 


Through  Nelson's  Duchy 

wailing  cranes  on  their  northward  or  south 
ward  migrations. 

The  road  to  Bronte  ascends  to  a  group 
of  savage  rocks  of  strange  aspect — a  land- 
mark in  all  directions  for  many  miles — 
where  Greek  and  Sicilian  remains  have 
been  found,  and  whose  precipitous  hollows 
are  still  invested  with  supernatural  terrors 
for  the  Brontese  and  Malettani.  Through 
a  lonely  upland  region,  with  northward 
and  north-westward  a  most  superb 
panorama  of  mountain  scenery — wherein 
one  may  discern  isolated  Troina,  the  highest 
town  in  Sicily  (3650  feet) ;  Centuripe 
generally  (locally,  at  any  rate)  called  Cen- 
tdrbi  ;  the  winding  Dittaino  (the  ancient 
Chrysas)  in  its  vast  valley ;  Agira 
(which  the  hill  folk  prefer  to  call  San 
Filippo  d'Argiro),  the  ancient  Agyrium, 
and  a  Sicilian  city  before  ever  the  first 
Greeks  landed  in  Sicily,  remembered  now 
because  it  was  here  that  the  historian 
Diodorus  Siculus  was  born,  and  here  that 
(as  he  tells  us)  Hercules  came  in  his  wander- 
ings and  was  honoured  with  a  fane  and 
long  worshipped ;  and  even,  in  clear 
weather,  "  the  navel  of  Sicily,"  ancient 
Enna,  the  home  of  Demeter  and  Persephone. 
It  would  be  a  useless  catalogue  to  give  a 

iv  305  u 


Through  Nelson's  Duchy 

summary  of  the  picturesque  hills  and 
swelling  mountain  ridges,  the  vast  shadowy 
valleys  and  clustered  towns  and  villages 
visible  from  different  points  along  this 
drive  into  Bronte :  it  must  suffice  to  say 
that  the  scene  is,  in  its  kind,  unsurpassable. 
Bronte  itself  is  a  semi -barbarous, 
mediaeval -looking  town,  of  which  the  first 
impressions  of  innumerable  black  swine, 
swarming  squalid  children,  and  irredeem- 
able sordidness,  give  way  afterwards  to 
the  qualified  admission  that  the  place  has 
a  wonderful  situation,  that  the  little  town 
is  not  a  citadel  of  cut -throats,  and  that 
a  day  may  come  when  residence  there 
may  not  seem  to  continental*  one  of  the 
most  dreadful  of  enforced  exiles.  There 
have  been  days,  indeed,  when  the  present 
writer — spending  a  waiting  hour  or  two 
on  the  tenazzo  above  the  old  formal  garden 
at  the  back  of  the  Palazzo  Ducale — has 
even  found  a  certain  charm  in  this  lava- 
cirqued  townlet  of  one  of  the  least  tractable 
or  pleasing  of  Sicilian  populations.  But  in 
truth,  as  once  in  the  hill  train  at  Lingua - 
glossa  I  heard  an  old  gentleman  of  that  town 
remark,  after  an  eloquent  outpouring  about 
Paris  and  London  and  New  York  from  a 
returned  emigrant,  "£  tutto  relativo  .  .  . 
306 


Through  Nelson's  Duchy 

it  is  all  relative  :  a  crowd  of  fifty  in  Lin- 
guaglossa  is  as  big  as  five  hundred  in 
Catania,  or  five  thousand  in  Rome,  or  fifty 
thousand  in  London  or  Paris.  It  is  only  a 
crowd  after  all.  And  so  with  all  you  hear, 
all  you  see,  all  that  makes  life  hard  or  good  : 
it  is  all  a  relative  question — si,  si,  I  tutto 
relativo"  And,  doubtless,  life  in  Bronte 
is,  for  the  Brontese,  by  no  means  as  terrible 
an  affair  as  it  would^seem  to  you  or  to  me, 
while  quite  certainly  the  women  who  chat 
among  the  black  pigs  at  the  doors  of  the 
Street  of  Polyphemus,  or  the  native  dandies 
who  patrol  the  Road  of  Timoleon,  have 
pleasures  and  consolations  of  which  we 
discern  no  trace.  M 

Then  there  are  the  great  orange -groves 
miles  away  south  down  the  Sim£to  valley, 
and  the  vast  beech-woods  of  the  Serraspina 
and  the  Serra  del  Re  away  yonder  to  the 
north  ! 

These  orange -groves,  those  beech -woods  ! 
Both  in  their  kind,  are  they  not  unique 
in  extent,  beauty,  and  interest  ? 

There  is  no  more  fascinating  excursion 
from  Maniace  in  the  spring  than  that 
through  the  lower  part  of  the  duchy  to 
the  celebrated  orange -forest.  This  excur- 
sion is  indeed  a  thing  to  be  remembered 
307 


Through  Nelson's  Duchy 

with  joy.  From  the  start  the  day  is  a 
festival  of  beauty.  First  there  is  the  drive 
past  the  immense  valley  wherein  lie  the  vast 
vineyards,  under  the  shadow  of  Rapiti, 
whence  are  won  the  famous  Bronte  wines 
and  the  super-excellent  Bronte  brandy  ; 
then  the  road  crosses,  and  ascends  to  a 
great  height,  through  a  wild  pastoral  region, 
with  jEtna  towering  on  the  south,  its  lower 
flanks  black  with  old  lava -streams,  or 
sombre  with  islanded  forests  of  oak  and 
chestnut,  or  here  supporting  a  white  village 
like  a  resting  dove  clinging  to  a  rock,  or 
here  a  town  growing  out  of  the  wilderness 
of  lava  and  landslip  like  some  huge,  uncanny 
flower.  Then  we  come  to  the  union  of 
the  Sim£to,  or  rather  of  the  Giarretta  as 
the  peasants  now  call  it  when  the  confluent 
of  several  streams,  with  the  rushing  Fiume 
Salso — in  Greek  days  the  Kyamosoros — to 
be  joined  in  the  lower  gorges  (wild  and 
precipitous  depths  where  the  surging  flood 
becomes  a  green  serpent  writhing  in  a 
continual  yeast  of  foam,  and  where  in  the 
obscurity  above  the  maidenhair  growing 
from  jutting  rocks  bats  continually  flit, 
or  the  cliff -hawk  shoots  past  on  arrowy 
wing)  by  the  Dittaino,  the  Chrysas  *  of 
*  It  has  been  denied  that  the  Chrysas  and  the 
308 


Through  Nelson's  Duchy 

the  poets,  and  by  the  Erykas.  Near  these, 
and  at  the  junction  of  the  rough  hill  roads 
for  Bronte,  we  alight,  and  mount  strong 
mules  for  the  remaining  five  miles  of  the 
twelve -mile  excursion.  What  a  ride,  along 
those  picturesque  banks  and  overhanging 
hills,  through  narrow  lava  lanes  overgrown 
with  giant  cactus,  past  rude  orchards 
filled  with  orange-  and  lemon-trees  in  full 
fruit  and  almonds  in  a  dazzle  of  sunlit 
foam  of  blossom,  meeting  now  a  band  of 
muleteers,  now  a  solitary  goatherd,  now  a 
wandering  shepherd  with  his  gaunt  flock 
following  him  to  the  sound  of  the  wailing 
monotonous  bagpipe  !  .  .  .  But  how  to 
convey  even  the  most  dimly  approximate 
idea  of  the  beauty  of  the  orange-groves 
when  at  last,  after  a  descent  of  a  thousand 
feet  through  a  narrowing  gorge,  one  smells 
the  odours  of  paradise,  and  suddenly  comes 
upon  the  advance-guard  of  three  million 
oranges  !  For  that  is  the  estimated  crop 
of  the  twenty -six  thousand  trees  in  this 
forest  of  fragrance  and  beauty.  Then  there 

Symaethus  were  ever  considered  one  river.  The 
other  day,  in  glancing  through  D'Orville's  great 
Latin  work,  Sicula,  I  found  several  allusions  to 
"  Vagus  Chrysas  "  and  its  more  famous  confluent, 
and  also,'  in  connection,  the  quoted  line  from 
Silius,  "  Rapidique  colunt  vada  flava  Symaethi." 

309 


Through  Nelson's  Duchy 

are  also  hundreds  of  lemon-  and  citron- 
trees,  and  the  lovely  mandarin-orange  with  its 
delicious  fruit.  To  camp  under  this  green 
wilderness,  with  a  multitude  of  yellow 
and  ruddy  globes  of  light  around  one,  with 
the  hum  of  bees  among  the  violets  and 
narcissus  along  the  undergrass,  and  the 
flutter  of  white  and  sulphur  butterflies 
over  trailing  rose  or  convolvulus  (the  magic 
hour — the  hour  of  the  firefly  and  the  rising 
moon — is  a  joy  apart),  and  there  to  eat 
and  drink  in  a  pleasure  of  appetite  of  mind 
and  body,  is  to  know  one  of  the  unforgettable 
experiences  of  life. 

These  orange -groves  are  at  the  south- 
western end  of  the  Duchy  of  Bronte,  and 
it  is  a  far  cry  back  from  them  to  the  oak- 
woods  of  the  Serraspina  and  the  beech - 
woods  of  the  Serra  del  Re,  away  in  the 
Sicilian  highlands  to  the  north  of  Maniace. 
And  to  go  there  is  a  long  day's  excursion. 
One  has  to  rise  early,  and  drive  many  miles 
up  the  valley  of  the  Saraceni,  with  detour 
by  the  resident  agent's  summer  abode 
(some  three  thousand  feet  high,  and  so 
beyond  reach  of  the  malaria)  and  the 
picturesque  saw-mills  above  the  hamlet  of 
mountaineers,  which  occupies  an  outlook 
of  superb  loveliness,  where  the  carriage  is 
310 


Through  Nelson's  Duchy 

left  for  the  inevitable  mule.  Then  begins 
the  long  and  arduous  climb,  past  wild  and 
romantic  mountain  glens,  up  steep  and 
sometimes  seemingly  inaccessible  slopes, 
through  disappearing  olive -groves  and  in- 
creasing oaks,  till  the  Serra  della  Spina 
is  crossed,  and  then  over  stony  plateaux 
swept  by  the  hill  winds,  and  with  views 
of  ceaseless  change  and  exciting  beauty, 
till  at  last,  afoot,  for  there  is  mercy  even 
for  mules,  one  reaches  the  first  outskirts 
of  the  beech- woods  of  the  Serra  del  Re, 
some  eight  thousand  feet  above  the  sea — 
nearly  double  the  height  of  Ben  Nevis, 
the  highest  mountain  in  Great  Britain. 
To  be  viewed  in  their  full  glory  these 
magnificent  forests  must  be  seen  in  late 
autumn.  Never  shall  I  forget  their  radiant 
splendour  about  the  end  of  October  or 
beginning  of  November.  It  was  an  ocean 
of  majestically  uplifted,  miraculously 
suspended  gold — an  illimitable  Sahara  of 
sun-flamed  foliage.  In  these  ancient  un- 
disturbed recesses  not  only  does  the  wolf 
lurk,  but  one  may  well  believe  the  faun 
and  the  hamadryad  still  linger.  Here,  if 
in  the  remote  forests  of  any  country  in  the 
world,  surely  these  lovely  exiles  from  the 
Golden  Age  might  be  found  ! 


Through  Nelson's  Duchy 

From  the  summit — and  at  the  extreme 
northern  boundary  of  "  Nelson's  Duchy  " 
—a  great  part  of  all  Sicily  is  to  be  seen. 
/Etna,  seems  higher,  more  wonderful,  more 
terribly  impressive  than  ever  :  the  southern 
highlands  reach  by  mountain  slope  and 
valley,  by  the  hill -towns  of  isolated  Cen- 
turipe  and  Troina,  by  the  ^Etnean  towns 
of  Bronte  and  Aderno  to  the  great  sea- 
frontiered  plain  of  Catania  ;  westward 
stands  out  the  huge  plateau  crowned  with 
"  Enna,  that  holy  city  of  the  Kore  and  the 
Mother  "  ;  north-westward  are  the  moun- 
tains which  guard  Palermo  ;  northward 
and  eastward  the  Tyrrhene  Sea,  the  Lipari 
Isles,  the  smoking  cone  of  Stromboli,  and, 
nearer,  the  lovely  northern  coasts  of  Sicily 
westward  from  the  promontory  of  Milazzo. 

Between  this  beech -covered  range  of 
the  Serra  del  Re  and  the  orange -forests, 
many  thousand  feet  below,  a  score  or 
more  miles  away,  lies  this  wonderful  duchy 
which  the  King  of  Naples  gave  to  our 
great  Nelson.  In  the  Castello  of  Maniace 
may  be  seen,  among  innumerable  relics, 
his  will,  signed  "  Nelson  and  Bronte  "  ; 
but  he  himself  was  never  here.  It  was 
before  Nelson's  time,  too,  that  the  duchy 
extended  up  the  slopes  of  ^Etna  itself, 
312 


Through  Nelson's  Duchy 

past  the  upper  precipices  (from  two  to 
four  thousand  feet  in  height)  which  over- 
hang the  black  and  awful  abyss  of  the 
Valle  del  Bove,  to  the  very  edges  of  the 
crater  of  the  central  cone,  down  which, 
more  than  two  thousand  years  ago,  as 
legend  tells  us,  the  great  philosopher  Em- 
pedocles  swung  into  the  flames  which  then 
and  since  have  never  ceased  in  the  heart 
of  this  Titan  among  volcanoes. 


313 


THE  LAND  OF  THEOCRITUS 

IF  there  is  no  island  in  the  world  so  famous 
alike  for  historical  and  literary  associations 
and  for  unequalled  beauty  as  Sicily,  there 
is  no  part  of  Sicily  so  fascinating  as  that 
vast  region  which  lies  under  the  dominion 
of  "la  Madre  Bianca,"  the  White  Mother, 
as  the  peasants  call  ^Etna,  perhaps  un- 
consciously reiterating  Pindar's  epithet  for 
the  greatest  mountain  of  southern  Europe, 
named  also  by  him  "  The  Pillar  of  Heaven  " 
— Nourisher  of  the  Snow. 

It  is  a  fascination  that  appeals  to  the 
poet  and  painter,  to  the  student  and 
archaeologist,  to  the  lover  of  the  beautiful, 
and  to  the  ordinary  visitor  who  wanders 
to  the  South  chiefly  for  sunshine  and  the 
amusement  of  novel  interest. 

Even  when  one  has  lived  many  weeks 
under  the  shadow  of  this  Queen  of  Moun- 
tains, as  Verga,  the  Sicilian  novelist,  justly 
calls  the  vast  upheaval  whose  base  cir- 
cumference is  more  than  a  hundred  and  fifty 
miles  ;  which  rises  two  miles  skyward  in 
314 


The  Land  of  Theocritus 

direct  uplift  from  the  lava  plain  ;  whose 
head  towers  above  the  Ionian  and  Tyrrhene 
seas  at  an  elevation  of  nearly  11,000  feet  ; 
whose  final  precipitous  cone  is  itself  a 
thousand  feet  in  height  ;  whose  extreme 
summit — terrible  caldron  of  smoke  and 
flame — has  a  circuit  of  three  and  a  half 
miles  ;  and  on  whose  flanks  a  score  perilous 
towns,  a  hundred  perilous  villages,  grow 
like  stemless  lilies  or  multitudinous  lichen — 
even  in  so  brief  a  time  the  visitor  gifted  in 
any  degree  with  imagination  falls  under  a 
spell,  the  more  irresistible  as  its  magic  is 
"  in  the  air,"  is  felt  by  all,  is  everywhere  a 
potent  force.  But  when  one  spends  months 
in  Sicily,  when  one  comes  one  year  and  re- 
turns another  and  another^above  all,  for 
those  who  reside  in  southern  Sicily  for  half 
the  year — "  Madre  Mia  "  becomes  an  actual 
personality,  terrible  or  beautiful,  and  silently 
worshipped.  The  Sicilian  peasants  are 
pagans  at  heart  in  their  regard  for  Mount 
^Etna.  All  are  sensible  of  its  surpassing 
beauty,  even  those  who  could  not  put 
this  sentiment  into  words,  or  wouid  look 
upon  such  expression  as  idly  superfluous, 
and  whose  morning  and  evening  or  hourly 
glance  at  the  smoke-tufted  summit  is  akin 
to  that  of  the  sailor  at  the  uncertain  way  of 
315 


The  Land  of  Theocritus 

the  wind,  or  to  that  of  the  farmer  at  the 
shape  and  colour  of  the  clouds  beyond  the 
top  of  his  elms.  But  there  are  few^Etneans 
who  have  not  a  superstitious  regard  for  the 
terrible  and  beautiful  mountain — as  well 
they  may. 

I  do  not  know  if  the  Polyphemus  legend 
still  survives,  though  I  have  heard  that  the 
peasants  of  Aci  Reale,  Mascali,  Piedimonte, 
and  other  communes  tell  in  story  and  chant 
in  folk-song  of  the  flaming  one-eyed  demon 
who  guards  the  fires  at  the  heart  of  the 
mountain,  but  whom  weariness  overcomes 
every  ten  years  or  so,  and  the  result  of 
whose  sudden  slumber  is  an  outburst,  at 
the  vast  cone,  of  furious  flame  and  boiling 
floods  of  lava.  Possibly  one  reason  why 
the  name  is  rarely  if  ever  heard  is  because 
of  superstition.  A  friend  of  the  writer 
asked  one  of  the  peasants  in  his  employ  if 
he  had  ever  heard  of  Polyphemus.  "  No  : 
it  is  a  name  that  has  bad  luck  (mal5  for- 
tuno),"  the  man  answered,  gravely. 

At  Aci  Castello — the  picturesque  castle - 
guarded  hamlet  by  the  shore,  with  its 
fantastic  sea-set  rocks,  the  scene  of  the 
old  myth  of  the  mountain  boulders  hurled 
by  the  enraged  Cyclops  at  the  deriding 
Ulysses — I  asked  an  old  neatherd  if  he  had 

316 


The  Land  of  Theocritus 

heard  of  Polyphemus.  He  shook  his  head  ; 
but  whether  because  the  name  does  not 
survive  in  its  Greek  form,  or  because  my 
foreign  Italian  was  untranslatable  in  his 
Sicilian  dialect,  I  could  not  say.  When  I 
pointed  to  the  rocks  and  spoke  of  the 
"  antico  greco  Ulisso,"  he  understood,  and 
unleaning  from  his  long  staff,  pointed  with 
it  to  the  vast  white  mass  of  ^Etna  towering 
above  the  near  shelving  terraces  of  lemon 
and  olive,  and  said  simply,  "  II  vecchio 
questo  ha  fatto  "  —The  Old  One  up  there 
did  that. 

It  is  certain,  however,  whatever  of  Greek 
legend  and  nomenclature  has  perished, 
that  many  of  the  pagan  Hellenic  traditions 
have  survived  throughout  inland  Sicily — 
corrupt  and  blent  with  Carthaginian,  Latin, 
Norman,  Saracenic,  Iberian,  and  other 
strains — and  are  reflected  in  the  folk -tales 
and  legendary  songs  and  ballads  of  the 
unlettered  and  therefore  unforgetting 
peasants.  At  Giardini  (the  ancient  Naxos), 
for  example,  the  patron  saint  is  Santa 
Venere  (Saint  Venus) :  behind  Taormina 
rises  the  vast  and  precipitous  Sicilian 
Venusberg,  Monte  Venere :  the  crags  of 
Capo  San  Andrea  and  Isola  Bella  are  called 
the  Siren's  Rocks,  and  the  caverns  the 
317 


The  Land  of  Theocritus 

"  Gallerie  degli  Greci  antichi  "  ;  one  on 
Isola  San  Nicolo  is  called  the  "  Letto  di 
Olisso,"  the  haven  (lit.  bed)  of  Ulysses, 
while  the  local  name  for  the  Aci  rocks  is 
(when  not  simply  Pietri  del'  Mar)  "  Rocche 
del  vecchio  Capitano " — i.e.  Odysseus. 
There  are  two  heights  at  Castrogiovanni 
(the  ancient  Enna,  or  Henna)  called  "  The 
Sacred  Women,"  whose  names  ages  ago 
were  Demeter  and  Persephone. 

The  fascination  of  the  whole  ^Etnean 
region  is  threefold.  There  is  the  spell  of 
the  past.  Perhaps  no  other  region  of  the 
same  extent  can  vie  in  this  respect  with 
the  Sicilian  coast  from  Messina  and  Taormina 
to  Syracuse  and  Girgenti,  from  Porto 
Empedocle  to  Palermo,  from  Cefalu  to 
where  Scylla  and  Charybdis  still  watch 
the  tormented  waters  of  the  once  dreaded 
strait.  The  memory  is  strained  with  the 
multitude  of  reminiscence.  A  crowd  of 
famous  heroes  and  tyrants,  deliverers  and 
oppressors,  poets  and  dramatists  and  his- 
torians, Greeks,  Asiatics,  Romans,  and 
Normans — from  Hiero  and  Dionysius  to 
King  Roger,  from  Timoleon  to  Garibaldi, 
from  Empedocles  and  Pythagoras  and 
Pindar,  Plato  and  -ZEschylus  and  Theo- 
critus— compel,  or  rather  tyrannise,  the 


The  Land  of  Theocritus 

imagination.  Then  there  is  the  magic  of 
omnipresent  beauty — of  beauty  in  cease- 
less variety,  but  stranger,  more  picturesque, 
more  barbarian,  more  fantastic,  more  vividly 
Southern,  than  is  to  be  seen  elsewhere. 
Finally  there  is  the  fascination  of  Mount 
^Etna.  This  is  the  magnet  which  attracts 
everything  in  Sicily.  As  one  of  her  poets 
(Rapisardi)  says,  "  the  very  lemon  boughs 
of  Mascali,  the  orange  branches  of  Aci, 
the  roses  and  lilies  on  the  breast?  of  Catania, 
rejoice  when  ^Etna  is  serene,  shrink  and 
darken  when  the  great  Mother  frowns." 
In  Sicilian  poetry  ^Etna  plays  as  dominant 
a  part  as  in  Japanese  painting  and  poetry 
"  the  peerless  mountain,  Fusiyama."  Allu- 
sion to  it  is  the  natural  culmination  of  any 
emotional  expression — as  when  in  one  of  the 
famous  Sicilian  novelist  Verga's  stories  a 
dying  peasant  is  about  to  confess  to  a  score 
of  crimes,  but  suddenly,  with  radiant  face, 
points  to  the  white  and  terrible  splendour 
of  y£tna,  and  sighing,  "  La  Montagna" 
sinks  back  and  says  no  more.  Let  me 
find  room  for  one  characteristic  poem 
by  a  Sicilian,  Giovanni  Cesareo — quoting, 
however,  only  the  first  and  last  Italian 
stanzas  :  * 

*  "  Occidental*."     (Milan  :  1887.) 
319 


The  Land  of  Theocritus 

Io  nacqui  dove  il  del  ride  sereno 
Sopra  I'  isola  bella,  occhio  de'  mari  ; 

Dove  si  mescon  candide, 

Scintillando  a  mattini  umidi  e  chiari, 

L'  onde  del  lonio  e  I'  onde  del  Tirreno. 

*  *  *  *  * 

O  tu,  che  sei  piu  bianco,  dell  a  spuma, 
Vieni  :  la  vela  dell'  amor  ci  attende  : 

I  liti  azzurri  fremono 
Odorando  ;  dall'  erta  il  gregge  pende, 
E  /'  Etna  immane  air  orizzonto  fuma. 

I  was  born  where  the  radiant  sky  domes  the 
Beautiful  Island,  the  eye  of  Ocean  :  where  all 
lovely  lights,  by  misty  morns  or  clear,  forever 
blend  the  Ionian  and  the  Tyrrhene  waves. 

In  the  sunflood  the  country-sides  quiver  with 
light,  murmurous  in  the  white  dust  of  moontide  : 
silent,  on  the  barren  rocks,  the  cactus -fronds 
sleep,  outlined  against  green  mountain-ranges. 

In  the  enchanted  bays,  curved  crescents  of 
moving  light,  are  mirrored  the  marble  walls  of 
ancient  towns  ;  and  along  the  flower-starred  slopes 
one  may  hear  the  forlorn  sighing  of  old  shores, 
by  forgotten  Moorish  fragments,  in  the  shadow 
of  the  orange-trees. 

O  Thou,  who  art  whiter  than  foam  of  the  sea, 
come  !  The  veil  of  Love  awaits  us  !  The  azure 
shores  quiver,  fragrant  :  on  the  hill-pastures  the 
flocks  hang  still  as  flowers  :  from  Etna,  leaning 
vast  against  the  sky,  a  breath  of  smoke  ! 

It  is  interesting  to  turn  from  the  modern 
singer  to  the  song  of  an  earlier  Sicilian, 
Theocritus,    made  perhaps  on    thyme-clad 
320 


The  Land  of  Theocritus 

Hybla,  or  on  an  ^Etnean  hill-pasture  where 
once  Galatea  dreamed  of  her  beloved  Acis, 
or  in  the  shadow  of  ancient  olives,  such  as 
those  which,  near  Syracuse,  mark  the 
legendary  site  of  the  grave  of  ^Eschylus, 
or  as  those  in  that  orchard  on  the  way  to 
Euryelos  called  by  a  living  Syracusan  poet 
the  Garden  of  Plato  ;  or,  mayhap,  under 
some  such  group  of  vast  caruba -trees  as 
those  which,  between  Tauromenion — the 
Taormina  of  to-day — and  the  Hill  of  Venus, 
are  still  vaguely  associated  with  a  vanished 
marble  seat  whence  Pythagoras  dreamed 
across  the  Ionian  Sea  : 

DAPHNIS 

Ah,  sweetly  lows  the  calf,  and  sweetly  the 
heifer,  sweetly  sounds  the  neatherd  with  his  pipe, 
and  sweetly  also  I  !  My  bed  of  leaves  is  strown 
by  the  cool  water,  and  thereon  are  heaped  fair 
skins  from  the  white  calves  that  were  all  browsing 
upon  the  arbutus.  .  .  . 

MENALCAS 

Etna,  mother  mine,  I  too  dwell  in  a  beautiful 
cavern  in  the  chamber  of  the  rock,  and,  lo,  all  the 
wealth  have  I  that  we  behold  in  dreams  ;  ewes  in 
plenty  and  she-goats  abundant,  their  fleeces  are 
strown  beneath  my  head  and  feet. 

Or  to  this,  written  perhaps  by  Syracusan 
waters,  or  by  that  beautiful  shore  where 
now  the  picturesque  ruined  castle  of  Roger 
IV  321  x 


The  Land  of  Theocritus 

the  Norman  faces  the  Scogli  de'  Ciclopi, 
as  the  people  often  still  call  the  seaward- 
hurled  rocks  of  the  Cyclops  Polyphemus, 
or  by  the  wild  lava  blocks  of  the  Naxian 
promontory,  where  they  lie  piled  beyond 
the  orange  groves  of  Alcantara,  the  ancient 
Alcesines  : 

The  halcyons  will  lull  the  waves,  and  lull  the 
deep,  and  the  south  wind,  and  the  east  that  stirs 
the  seaweeds  on  the  higher  shores,  the  halcyons 
that  are  dearest  to  the  green-haired  mermaids, 
of  all  the  birds  that  take  their  prey  from  the  salt 
sea.  Let  all  things  smile  on  (my  friend)  Ageanax 
sailing  to  Mytilene,  and  may  he  come  to  a  friendly 
haven.  On  that  day  I  will  go  crowned  with 
anise,  or  with  a  rosy  wreath,  or  a  garland  of  white 
violets,  and  the  fine  wine  of  Ptelea  I  will  dip  from 
the  bowl  as  I  lie  by  the  fire,  while  one  shall  roast 
beans  for  me,  in  the  embers .  And  elbow-deep  shall 
the  flowery  bed  be  thickly  strewn,  with  fragrant 
leaves  and  with  asphodel,  and  with  curled  parsley  ; 
and  softly  will  I  drink,  toasting  Ageanax  with 
lips  clinging  to  the  cup,  and  draining  it  even  to 
the  lees. 

At  every  place  on  this  haunted  shore  or 
by  these  inland  hills  and  valleys  of  ^Etna 
one  may  hear  the  voice  of  Theocritus, 
whether  it  be  disguised  as  Daphnis  or 
Menalcas  or  Thyrsis.  "  Thyrsis  of  ^Etna 
am  I,  and  this  is  the  voice  of  Thyrsis  .  .  . 
by  the  great  stream  of  the  river  Anapus, 
322 


The  Land  of  Theocritus 

on  the  height  of  ^Etna,  by  the  sacred  water 
of  Acis." 

Certainly  it  ought  to  be  on  the  lemon - 
fragrant  heights  above  Aci  Reale  on  the 
southern  slope  of  ^Etna,  or  upon  the  shore 
facing  the  Cyclopean  rocks  themselves, 
that  one  should  read  the  Sixth  Idyl,  where 
Daphnis  and  Damoetas  sing  of  the  one- 
eyed  Cyclops  and  his  love  for  Galatea. 
And  lying  there  on  an  afternoon,  with  the 
Cyclopean  isles  rising  out  of  the  deep  azure 
calm  of  one  of  the  few  still  days  of  February, 
one  reader  of  Theocritus  realised  to  the 
full  that  the  Sicilian  poet  must  have  had  in 
mind  not  Polyphemus,  but  ^Etna — the  true 
one-eyed  Cyclops  of  Sicily — when  he  wrote 
the  close  of  this  idyl  ;  for  deep  in  the  blue 
Ionian  sea  was  outlined  beyond  the  farther 
rock  the  vast  head  of  ^Etna,  with  his  forest 
beard,  his  ridges  of  snow,  his  one  eye 
browed  with  snow-white  drifted  smoke  : 

For,  in  truth,  I  am  not  so  hideous  as  they  say  ! 
But  lately  I  was  looking  into  the  sea,  when  all  was 
calm  :  beautiful  seemed  my  beard,  beautiful  my 
one  eye,  and  the  sea  reflected  the  gleam  of  my 
teeth  whiter  than  the  Parian  stone. 

Or,  again,  high  on  the  southern  mountain 
slope  above  Belpasso,  looking  down  upon 
the    three    azure    but    perilous    meres    of 
323 


The  Land  of  Theocritus 

Paterno  (the  ancient  Hybla  Minor),  Bian- 
ca villa  (where,  it  is  said,  a  rude  Greek 
dialect  informs  the  corrupt  Sicilian-Italian), 
and  Aderno  (the  ancient  Hadranum,  with 
its  famous  Temple  of  Hadranos  guarded  by 
a  thousand  hounds,  and  where  the  Greek 
Garibaldi,  Timoleon,  received  his  "  sign 
from  heaven  ") — with,  to  the  north,  Bronte 
between  its  malarious  lake  and  the  wild 
lands  beyond,  where,  a  thousand  years  ago, 
the  Hellenic  chieftain  Maniaces  and  the 
Norwegian  viking  Harald  Hardradr  routed 
the  Saracens  ;  and,  to  the  west,  the  moun- 
tains of  ancient  Henna,  the  land  of  Demeter 
and  Persephone  :  here,  high  on  this  sun- 
swept  slope,  where  nature's  green  tides 
for  ever  struggle  to  overcome  the  inferno 
of  black,  tormented  lava,  is,  surely,  a  fit 
place  whereat  to  re-read  with  new  delight 
that  ever -charming  Eleventh  Idyl.  This 
is  the  idyl  which  Theocritus  himself  tells 
us  was  to  comfort  the  poet -physician 
Nicias,  by  reminding  him  that  even  Poly- 
phemus (the  Theocritan  Cyclops,  truly  a 
very  different  being  from  the  Homeric 
monster)  found  surcease  in  song  from  the 
pain  of  love.  It  was  on  these  slopes  that, 
when  young,  the  amorous  Cyclops  tended, 
as  a  gift  for  Galatea,  eleven  crescent - 

324 


The  Land  of  Theocritus 

browed  fawns.  He  sang  his  pain  out  on 
the  wind  of  the  west,  while  ignoring  his  own 
wisdom  :  Milk  the  ewe  that  thou  hast  ; 
why  pursue  the  thing  that  shuns  thee  ? 
After  reading  this,  one  of  the  loveliest 
of  the  Theocritan  poems,  one  may  turn  to 
a  near  spring — pure  from  the  days  of  the 
ancients,  as  the  peasants  say — and  drink 
of  the  clear  water  "  that  for  me  deep- 
wooded  ^Etna  sends  down  from  the  white 
snow  a  draught  divine  !  "  But  if  the  wild 
Libeccio  or  west  wind  should  suddenly 
arise,  or  the  gray  scirocco  come  out  of 
the  south-east,  then  one,  glancing  at  the 
terrible  head  of  the  great  mountain,  may 
quote  rather,  "  He  may  love,  not  with 
apples,  not  roses,  but  with  fatal  frenzy." 

The  other  day  I  was  in  a  garden  amid 
which  a  fragmentary  part  of  the  ancient 
Naxian  aqueduct  lies,  and  a  girl,  who 
had  been  drawing  water  at  a  well,  was 
turning  aside,  with  her  amphora  poised 
delicately  on  her  shapely  head.  I  asked 
her  name,  which  was  a  grandiloquent  one, 
— Pompilia.  In  the  south,  names  such  as 
Pompilia,  Caesar,  Pompeo,  Ottaviano, 
Venus,  &c.,  abound  ;  at  Mola,  for  example, 
the  hill-crest  town  that  overhangs  Taor- 
mina,  there  is  a  youth  called  Caesar  Augustus 
325 


The  Land  of  Theocritus 

and  a  muleteer  named  Timoleone,  and  at 
Taormina  itself  the  forename  of  the  mild 
young  hair-dresser  is  Orestes !  But  the 
peculiar  Sicilian  accent  of  the  dark-eyed 
water-drawer  had  for  a  moment  twisted 
the  name  in  my  too  ready  thought  to 
Bombyca.  It  sufficed,  however,  to  evoke 
a  delightful  memory  of  that  charming  idyl 
where  the  reaper  Milon  laughingly  mocks 
his  comrade  Battus,  love -worn  "because 
of  a  slim  girl,"  Bombyca,  she  who  was  wont 
to  pipe  to  the  reapers  on  the  farm  of  one 
Hippocoon.  Perhaps,  I  thought,  this  very 
garden  may  have  been  part  of  Hippocoon's 
farm  :  perhaps  the  old  gardener,  with  his 
red  flap-turned  cap,  was  a  descendant  of 
Polybotas,  Bombyca's  father  ;  and  the 
girl  yonder,  poising  her  amphora,  Battus 's 
sweetheart  herself.  She  was  beautiful 
enough  to  suggest  the  thought,  with  her 
great  dark  eyes  gleaming  under  her  yellow- 
kerchiefed  head,  and  her  slender  body 
swaying  from  the  lithe  hips  as  she  ascended 
the  little  stony  terrace  that  did  duty  as  a 
road.  "  They  call  thee  a  gypsy,  gracious 
Bombyca,  and  lean,  and  sunburnt ;  'tis 
only  I  that  call  thee  honey-pale.  Yea,  and 
the  violet  is  swart,  and  swart  the  lettered 
violet,  but  yet  these  flowers  are  chosen  the 
326 


The  Land  of  Theocritus 

first  in  garlands.  Ah,  gracious  Bombyca, 
thy  feet  are  fashioned  like  carven  ivory, 
thy  voice  is  drowsy  sweet,  and  thy  ways, 
I  cannot  tell  of  them." 

There  are  perhaps  few  more  admired 
lines  of  Theocritus  than  those  in  the  idyl 
addressed  to  his  friend  Diophantus,  which 
describe  so  realistically  the  toilsome  life 
of  two  old  fishermen.  But  there  are  also 
as  vivid  lines  in  the  famous  first  idyl  of 
Thyrsis  and  Daphnis,  and,  again,  in  this 
connection  there  is  a  most  interesting 
allusion  in  the  fragment  of  the  Berenice 
quoted  by  Athenaeus  : 

And  if  any  man  that  hath  his  livelihood  from 
the  salt  sea,  and  whose  nets  serve  him  for  ploughs, 
prays  for  wealth,  and  luck  in  fishing,  let  him 
sacrifice  at  midnight,  to  this  goddess,  the  sacred 
fish  that  they  call  "silver-white,"  for  that  it  is 
brightest  of  sheen  of  all — then  let  the  fisher  set  his 
nets,  and  he  shall  draw  them  full  from  the  sea — 

interesting  because  the  fishermen  on  the 
Ionian  coast  of  Sicily  still  call  a  fish  of 
the  mullet  species  "  argente -bianco," 
"  silver -white."  One  hot  day  at  the  end 
Df  January  the  present  writer  and  two 
friends  rowed  round  the  caverned  cliffs 
of  Capo  San  Andrea,  below  Taormina, 
past  the  Grotto  della  Sirena,  or  Cave  of 
327 


The  Land  of  Theocritus 

Ulysses,  where  a  deep  thunder  revealed 
the  force  of  the  sea-swell,  which  in  vast 
azure  and  green  depths  surged  rhythmically 
in  and  out  ;  and  as  we  rounded  Isola  San 
Nicolo  and  came  into  the  purple  azure 
calm  and  moored  to  the  rocks  close 
by  the  singular  antique  sea-wall  which 
connects  San  Nicolo  and  the  headland 
of  San  Andrea  (beneath  which  the  Ionian 
Sea  surges  with  titanic  force  whenever 
the  scirocco  or  the  mezzogiorno  blows, 
or  when  the  ocean  -  swell  predicts  a 
coming  storm  —  a  sea-wall  about  whose 
origin  and  even  whose  certain  purpose  no 
two  authorities  agree),  we  saw  first  a 
solitary  figure,  perched  in  an  appar- 
ently unscalable  and  inescapable  "  coign 
of  vantage,"  leaning  with  poised  trident 
intent  to  spear  one  of  the  great  palamiti 
(a  kind  of  white  salmon  which  fre- 
quents the  Ionian  waters,  and  especially 
near  rocky  coasts)  swimming  in  the  mar- 
vellously transparent  depths  just  under- 
neath ;  and  then,  as  we  came  into  the 
azure  stillness  of  the  little  bay,  behold,  no 
other  than  Theocritus's  old  fisherman  him- 
self, or  his  latter-day  lineal  descendant 
at  least  1 

Beyond,  an  ancient  fisherman  and  a  rock  are 

328 


The  Land  of  Theocritus 

fashioned,  a  rugged  rock,  whereon  with  might  and 
main  the  old  man  drags  a  great  net  for  his  cast, 
as  one  that  labours  stoutly.  Thou  wouldst  say 
that  he  is  fishing  with  all  the  might  of  his  limbs, 
so  big  the  sinews  swell  all  about  his  neck,  grey- 
haired  though  he  be,  but  his  strength  is  as  the 
strength  of  youth.  Now  divided  but  a  little 
space  from  the  sea-worn  old  man  is  a  vineyard 
laden  well  with  fire-red  clusters,  and  on  the  rough 
wall  a  little  lad  watches  the  vineyard,  sitting 
there. 


The  ancient  fisherman,  the  rugged  rock, 
the  rock-set  vineyard,  a  brown -legged  lad 
sitting  singing  on  the  broken  wall  a  popular 
Sicilian  ballad  about  a  villainous  hero  of 
the  Mafia,  one  Musulino — and  the  grey- 
haired  old  man  struggling  "might  and 
main  "  with  the  intricacies  and  dragging 
weight  of  a  huge  net  :  every  feature  of  the 
picture  is  repeated,  as  though  Theocritus 
had  been  a  Tauromenian,  and  had  viewed 
this  very  scene  at  this  very  spot — the  spot, 
it  is  said,  where  the  Ionian  Greeks  who 
were  the  pioneers  of  the  Hellenic  emigrants 
to  Sicily  first  landed. 

Another  great  though  less  known  poet — 
a  Latin,  not  a  Greek — may  have  looked 
often  on  a  like  scene  ;  for  Cornelius  Severus, 
the  panegyrist  of  Cicero  and  author  of 
Etna  (a  beautiful  Sicilian  poem  inspired 
329 


The  Land  of  Theocritus 

by  the  Mother  Mountain,  and  long  attributed 
to  Virgil — in  some  still  extant  editions  of 
whose  works,  indeed,  it  appears  as  authen- 
tically the  master's),  was  a  native  of 
Taormina,  and  is,  indeed,  her  chief  literary 
glory,  though,  strange  to  say,  his  memory 
remains  unhonoured  by  any  street  dedica- 
tion amid  the  prolific  classical  nomenclature 
which  aptly  and  inaptly  distinguishes  the 
ancient  hill -town. 

Taormina  has  cause,  certainly,  to  be 
proud  of  the  imposing  record  of  her  great 
citizens  and  famous  (or  infamous)  rulers 
and  visitors,  from  Pythagoras  and  Pindar 
to  Goethe  and  Freeman,  from  Andromachos 
to  Humboldt,  from  Timoleon  to  Garibaldi. 
"  All  the  world  comes  to  Taormina  "  is 
quite  as  true — to  the  patriotic  Taorminesi — 
as  that  all  roads  lead  to  Rome.  Alas,  the 
ancient  Tauromenion  is  fallen  into  decay. 
The  once  proud  city,  raised  on  an  older 
Sikelian  town  by  migrant  lonians  from  the 
despoiled  city  of  Naxos  far  below,  is  now, 
both  in  extent  and  beauty,  but  the  broken 
image  of  its  past.  From  the  lava -strewn 
promontory  of  Capo  Schiso,  the  site  of 
Naxos — the  shore,  now  lined  with  wild 
mulberry -trees,  where  was  once  the  long 
approach  to  the  beautiful  Temple  of  Apollo 
330 


The  Land  of  Theocritus 

Acrag£te"s — one  may  indeed  obtain  a  glimpse 
of  how  ancient  Tauromenion  must  have 
appeared  to  the  Greeks  and  Carthaginians, 
Romans  and  Saracens  ;  for  rock  and  sea 
and  sky  do  not  change,  and  Taormina  is 
pre-eminently  a  rock-set  and  sea-girt  and 
sky-companioned  town.  The  magnificent 
Theatre,  too,  crowning  its  eastern  heights, 
has  survived  from  age  to  age.  Moreover, 
the  greater  Greek  city  overflowed  down  the 
eastern  and  south  eastern  slopes,  and  so 
would  not  be  visible  from  Naxos. 

From  Andromachos  and  Dionysius,  the 
Tyrant  of  Syracuse  who  destroyed  Naxos, 
from  the  infamous  Agathocles  and  the 
great  Timoleon,  to  Tyndarion,  who  induced 
Pyrrhus  to  come  to  Sicily  and  to  land  his 
Oriental  host  on  the  Tauromenion  shore  ; 
from  Pythagoras,  the  wisest  of  men,  who 
in  the  course  of  his  long  and  extraordinary 
life,  spent  in  all  the  known  lands  of  anti- 
quity, visited  Taormina  and  reformed  its 
laws,*  to  Strabo,  the  famous  peripatetic 

*  It  was  while  at  Taormina  that  Pythagoras 
had  the  strange  psychical  experience  of  knowing 
himself  to  be  in  two  places  at  once  (the  other  was 
the  ancient  town  in  Magna  Graecia,  now  known 
as  Metaponto  in  Calabria),  and  here  also  that  with 
his  "subtle  music  "  he  cured  the  madness  of  a 
youth  who  had  become  frenzied  through  love 

331 


The  Land  of  Theocritus 

geographer,  and  to  Diodorus  Siculus,  the 
Pausanias  of  Sicily  ;  from  Pindar  to  Theo- 
critus, who,  according  to  an  erudite  if  not 
very  authentic  Sicilian  monographist, 
"  loved  well  the  black  kids  and  singing 
shepherds  and  the  rare  Euganea  of  Taor- 
mina  "  ;  *  from  Empedocles — whose  tra- 
ditional rude  tower  (at  a  height  on  ^Etna 
of  9600  feet)  is  still,  as  the  "Torre  del 
Filosofo,"  shown  beyond  the  last  ridges 
of  that  terrible  Valle  del  Bove,  a  vast 
sombre  wilderness  which  can  be  entered 
from  the  east  only,  "  an  abyss  some  three 
miles  in  width,  and  bounded  on  three  sides 
by  perpendicular  cliffs  from  2000  to  4000 
feet  high  " — to  Cornelius  Severus,  born 
in  the  little  hill-town  itself,  the  Latin  poet- 
celebrant  of  ^Etna,  the  younger  brother  of 
Virgil,  as  he  is  lovingly  called  by  Cesareo, 
both  because  of  his  Virgilian  music  and 
from  his  long  association  with  the  great 
master  :  from  the  building  of  the  famous 
Greek  Theatre  (little  of  which  has  survived 
in  the  magnificent  Roman  ruin  which  is 

(guarito  per  forza  di  musica  i  furori  bestiali  di 
un  giovanetto  innamorato,  as  his  erudite  Italian 
biographer  relates). 

*  The  famous  wine  of  Taormina,  called  Euganea, 
was  praised  by  Pliny,  and  long  selected  for  sacred 
festivals  at  Rome. 

332 


The  Land  of  Theocritus 

now  the  universal  attraction  to  Taormina) 
by  Andromachos,  whom  Plutarch  calls  the 
greatest  Greek  prince  of  his  day  (the 
builder  of  the  theatre  and  forum,  the  vast 
serpentine  aqueduct  and  the  temples  of 
Apollo  Archage'te's  and  Dionysius — and  also, 
it  is  said,  the  author  of  the  old  Sikelian 
town's  extant  name,  from  Mount  Tauro 
behind),  to  the  days  when  it  was  crowded 
with  native  and  foreign  Hellenes  to  witness 
the  dramas  of  ^Eschylus — who  may  well 
have  "  assisted,"  as  the  French  say,  for 
the  ancient  Naxos  was  but  a  brief  coast 
voyage  from  Syracuse,  where  the  greatest 
of  tragedians  spent  so  many  years,  and  in 
a  field  close  by  which  he  met  in  his  old 
age  his  strange  death — of  Sophocles,  and 
of  Euripides.  Alas,  these  great  names 
are  now  but  empty  sounds  in  Sicily.  No- 
where survives  the  spirit  which  prompted 
the  Syracusans  in  the  moment  of  their 
crushing  triumph  over  the  Athenian  Armada 
—and,  with  the  ruin  of  Athens  that  followed, 
the  passing  of  the  Hellenic  dominion  of  the 
world — to  grant  freedom  to  the  few  famished 
captives,  among  the  thousands  perishing 
in  the  dreadful  hollow  pits  of  precipitous 
quarries,  who  could  recite  "  scenes  "  of 
verses  of  Euripides. 

333 


The  Land  of  Theocritus 

But  there  is  no  end  to  classical  remini- 
scence, historic  interest,  and  present  charm 
in  all  this  marvellous  southern  coast  of 
Sicily,  of  which  Taormina  is  the  popular 
centre.  From  the  roof-top  terrace  above 
the  antique  Naumachia  where  I  write  I 
see  not  only  the  whole  of  picturesque 
Taormina  and  Pindar's  "  y£tna,  Pillar  of 
Heaven,"  but  all  that  was  ancient  Tauro- 
menion  ;  eastward  the  coast  mountains  of 
Messina,  the  Straits,  Calabria  from  Reggio 
to  Cape  Spartivento,  forty  miles  away  ; 
and  southward  Aci  Reale,  Catania,  the  long 
line  of  Mount  Hybla,  the  promontory  of 
Epipolyae,  and  Syracuse — with  flooding 
memories  of  a  hundred  familiar  names, 
heroes  and  poets  and  historians.  Above, 
Monte  Venere,  the  Hill  of  Venus,  has  already 
a  star ;  flute-notes,  like  those  of  the 
shepherds  of  Pan,  come  floating  from  the 
lentisk  thickets  ;  and  I  realise  that  this 
twentieth-century  garment  is  but  a  dia- 
phanous robe  wherethrough  one  beholds 
again  the  vanished  pagan  world. 


334 


ROME  IN  AFRICA 

I 

To  write  in  full  the  story  of  the  march  of 
Rome  in  Africa  would  involve  an  under- 
taking on  a  Gibbonian  scale.  The  record 
is  a  stirring  one,  even  if  read  or  heard  far 
from  where  the  war-boats  of  the  triumphant 
Republic  succeeded  the  Carthaginian  galleys 
—to  be  in  turn  ousted  by  the  piratical 
rovers  of  the  European  littoral.  The  story 
has,  in  truth,  an  epic  grandeur  which  would 
appeal  to  us  even  if  the  theme  were  not 
already  illumined,  now  here,  now  there, 
by  the  genius  of  Livy  and  Sallust,  of  Strabo 
and  Polybius. 

On  the  one  side  of  the  Mid-Sea  a  vast 
territory  makes  a  landway  between  the 
Atlantic  and  the  waters  of  the  Orient. 
For  generations  this  looming  continent 
meant,  to  the  young  nation  of  Rome, 
Carthage  only.  From  the  Homeric  Isle 
of  the  Lot os -Eaters  to  the  huge  shoulder 
of  Atlas,  that  hid  from  the  Romans  they 
knew  not  what  mysterious  tract  of  virgin 
335 


Rome  in  Africa 

land  or  unoared  sea,  the  shadow  of  the 
Great  City  lay,  a  shadow  minatory  as 
well  as  awe-inspiring.  Then  "  the  veil 
of  the  inviolate  "  was  rent.  Sicily,  which 
Greece  had  peopled  and  the  Sidonian 
trader  had  won,  was  the  first  tangled 
mesh  of  the  net  in  which  the  glory  of 
Carthage  was  caught  and  strangled.  Then 
came  that  mighty  struggle  for  the  lordship 
of  the  sea.  The  greatest  soldier  whom 
the  world  has  ever  seen  vowed  that  Rome 
should  lie  prostrate  before  her  ancient 
enemy.  Hannibal,  as  we  know,  triumphed 
over  the  ignorance  and  madness  of  the  civic 
merchants  and  fathers,  and  accomplished 
an  unparalleled  feat  in  the  transportation 
of  an  army  of  Numidian  barbarians, 
Greek  archers,  Balearic  slingers,  His- 
panian  spearmen,  and  Gaulish  swordsmen 
across  the  thitherto  impregnable  barrier 
of  the  Alps.  For  years  he  lay  like  a  night- 
mare on  the  breast  of  palpitating  Italy. 
Yet  even  at  the  bloody  rout  at  the  Trebia, 
even  by  the  shores  of  that  Umbrian  lake 
where  the  reeds  were  stained  red  in  the 
gore  of  an  exterminated  army,  even  at 
Cannae,  where  Hannibal  reached  the  pinnacle 
of  his  fame  and  Rome  knew  her  lowest 
fall — even  then  the  wind  bore  the  sigh 

336 


Rome  in  Africa 

of    a    terrible    lamentation,    Delenda    est 
Carthago  ! 

The  ebb  of  this  gigantic  tide  of  war 
began  after  that  appalling  slaughter  at 
dawn  by  the  intricate  windings  of  the 
Metaurus,  when  Claudius  Nero  threw  into 
the  camp  of  the  Carthaginian  the  head  of 
his  brother  Hasdrubal.  The  rumour  of 
this  ebb  was  heard  all  along  the  Latin 
coasts  when,  as  Hannibal  learned,  with 
prescient  dread  of  the  inevitable,  Cornelius 
Scipio — Scipio  Africanus — had  set  sail  for 
Africa  from  Lilybaeum,  that  old-time  van- 
guard of  the  Sidonian  Empire,  and  had 
landed  unopposed  at  the  Fair  Promontory,* 
beyond  which,  but  a  few  years  before,  no 
Roman  galley  had  dared  to  show  its  prow. 
Had  he  prescience  also  of  that  little  Bithy- 
nian  town  near  the  Sea  of  Marmora  of  which 
the  Oracle  had  spoken,  where,  after  long 
wanderings,  and  after  many  years,  he 
should  find  release  in  that  potent  grain  of 
poison  which,  even  in  the  day  of  victory, 
he  carried  in  his  ring  ?  So  at  the  last  died 
Hannibal,  son  of  Hamilcar,  knowing  that 
Punic  Carthage  was  soon  or  late  to  fall 

*  To  the  moderns  known  as  Cape  Bon.  Again 
and  again  the  Carthaginians  stipulated  to  the 
Greeks  and  Romans  :  "  Thus  far  and  no  farther  !  " 

IV  337  Y 


Rome  in  Africa 

for  ever,  and  that  already  the  neck  of  his 
nation  was  under  the  heel  of  Rome.  A 
memorable  year,  that  hundred  and  eighty- 
third  before  our  Christian  era  ;  for  then 
also  died  Scipio,  Hannibal's  conqueror, 
in  exile  and  bitterness  of  heart.  Within 
one  year ,  again,  nearly  four  decades  later 
(B.C.  146),  Carthage,  after  a  final  death- 
struggle,  was  razed  to  the  ground  by 
another  Scipio,  and  Corinth,  dragging  with 
it  the  pride  of  Hellas,  fell  from  her  high 
estate. 

It  was  not  till  the  third  Punic  war  that 
North  Africa  became  one  of  the  greatest 
provinces  of  the  Roman  Empire,  and  was 
able  to  supply  the  suzerain  power  with 
mercenaries,  innumerable  horse,  and  vast 
stores  of  grain  beyond  all  reckoning — to 
become,  in  a  word,  the  granary  of  Rome. 
Speedily,  indeed,  the  African  Province 
became  indispensable  as  a  source  of  grain  - 
supply.  Just  as  in  Great  Britain  to-day 
the  whole  yield  of  grain  would  be  utterly 
inadequate  to  the  need  of  the  nation,  so, 
in  the  late  republican  and  early  imperial 
days  of  Rome,  Italy  could  not  do  more 
than  produce  enough  to  feed  her  soldiers. 
So  exigent  was  this  need  at  all  times  that 
historians  have  agreed  in  saying  that  war 

338 


Rome  in  Africa 

in  Africa  meant  famine  in  Rome.  Even 
in  the  days  of  Julius  Caesar  the  sovran 
power  had  its  feet  among  the  corn-fields 
of  Ifrikia  :  without  those  corn-fields  ruinous 
collapse  of  Rome's  metropolitan  sway  might 
soon  have  happened.  Most  of  us  who 
remember  our  Livy  will  recollect  how 
Pompey,  in  revolt  against  the  dominant 
power,  stopped  the  export  of  grain  from 
the  African  ports,  thus  hoping  to  gain 
swifter  and  easier  surrender  on  the  part  of 
Caesar.  But  though  the  Roman  populace 
laughed  at  first,  it  soon  whimpered.  Bread 
became  a  luxury,  and  grain  food  of  all 
kind  threatened  to  discontinue.  At  the 
urgent  prayers  of  the  people,  Caesar  was  at 
last  forced  to  arrange  a  treaty  with  his 
rival.  Even  then  the  great  city  had  begun 
that  career  of  trust  in  accidental  aid  to 
her  supremacy  which  in  due  time  was 
to  end  so  disastrously.  When,  later,  Caesar 
brought  the  fratricidal  war  in  Africa  to  a 
close,  and  punished  the  revolted  towns,  he 
imposed  enormous  indemnity  demands — 
demands  which  at  that  time  no  other 
country  in  the  world  could  have  met. 
From  the  small  town  of  Leptis  alone,  that 
port  where  Hannibal  had  landed  from 
Italy  when  he  came  in  haste,  but  vainly, 
339 


Rome  in  Africa 

to  the  relief  of  Carthago,  Plutarch  tells 
us  he  obtained  a  fine  of  2,500,000  pounds 
of  oil.  To  the  Roman  citizens  he  declared 
on  his  return  that  they  could  depend  on 
Africa  for  an  annual  contribution  of  200,000 
bushels  of  corn  and  3,000,000  pounds' 
weight  of  oil.  In  the  reign  of  the  Emperor 
Commodus  this  transmarine  traffic  had 
become  so  vast  as  well  as  so  increasingly 
important  that  two  great  fleets  of  ships 
were  built  for  this  carry  ing -trade.  It  was 
in  a  ship  of  one  of  these  fleets,  a  vessel 
named  the  Castor  and  Pollux,  in  which  St. 
Paul  embarked  from  Malta.  In  the  time 
of  Constantine  the  whole  wheat -supply 
of  Africa  went  to  the  Italian  markets, 
while  Byzantium  was  enriched  with  that 
of  Egypt. 

What  bitterness  there  must  have  been 
in  all  this  to  the  broken  Carthaginian 
nation  !  The  "  Glory  of  the  World  "  had 
sunk  into  "  a  granary  for  the  Roman 
people,  a  hunting-ground  for  their  amphi- 
theatres, and  an  emporium  for  slaves."  * 

Generations    after    the    last    Punic    war, 
when  an  obscure  and  persecuted  faith  had 
become  the  Church  Militant,  Africa,  how- 
ever, was  to  give  to  her  and  to  the  world 
*  Herder's  Ideen. 
34° 


Rome  in  Africa 

one  of  the  greatest  of  her  Fathers,  one  of 
the  most  treasured  of  her  books,  as  to  the 
pagan  literature  of  all  time  it  was  to 
bring  the  poet -philosopher  whose  story  of 
Cupidoro  and  Psyche  is  still  loveliest  of 
all  tales  to  tell.  St.  Augustine,  Apuleius 
— great  names  these,  though  others  there 
are  to  cherish  likewise  with  gratitude  or 
admiration. 

What  a  wonderful  wave  of  new  life 
that  march  of  Rome  across  the  northern 
extremity  of  what  was  then  almost  wholly 
the  Dark  Continent — that  steady,  relent- 
less march  from  the  Tripolitan  coast  across 
mountains  and  deserts,  along  town-studded 
shores  where  the  Punic  speech  was  para- 
mount, down  the  vast  valleys  of  the  Aures 
(Mons  Aurasius),  whither  the  fierce  in- 
digenous folk  had  already  begun  to  con- 
centrate, over  interminable  plains  scorched 
by  the  sun,  tortured  by  drought,  haunted 
by  miasma,  round  the  gigantic  slopes 
of  the  Altas,  and  so  onward,  till  the  great 
awe  came  upon  all  when  there  was  no 
more  land,  but  only  the  Atlantic  surf 
blown  upon  the  white  walls  of  Tingis 
(Tangier),  over  against  the  Pillars  of 
Hercules. 

No  wonder  that,  to  the  Romans  them- 

341 


Rome  in  Africa 

selves,  the  story  was,  as  already  said, 
of  epic  grandeur  !  They  had  absorbed 
Greece,  they  had  destroyed  the  Phoenician 
Empire,  they  had  begun  that  unparalleled 
quest  of  the  impossible  which  is  still  the 
most  marvellous  chapter  in  the  chronicle 
of  human  history,  and  to  them  it  seemed 
that  they  were  not  only  invincible,  but 
"  the  one  people."  The  Roman  Empire 
was  that  blind  aristocrat  among  nations 
in  whose  ears  was  nothing  but  the  be- 
wildering acclaim  of  its  own  deeds,  in 
whose  eyes  the  fine  dust  of  its  own  way- 
faring. It  had  not  yet  had  reason  to  know 
that  Greece,  in  dying,  had  bequeathed  her 
subtle  but  sure  revenge  ;  that  when,  in 
Africa,  Marius  the  Consul  was  permitted 
by  the  Senate  to  extend  his  power,  that 
dreadful  system  of  tyranny  was  involved 
which  Rome's  whole  effort  had  been  to 
render  impossible  ;  that  with  her  ever- 
growing congregation  of  slaves,  from  re- 
motest Asia  to  Ultima  Thule,  she  was, 
as  it  were,  building  the  walls  of  her  great- 
ness with  self -disintegrating  mortar. 

This    march    of     Rome    in    Africa    was 

described  by  her  historians  with  the  one- 

sidedness     characteristic     of     the     Roman 

scribe  in  all  epochs.     They  recorded  with 

342 


Rome  in  Africa 

pride  the  rise  of  fair  cities  along  that 
distant  littoral,  in  the  recesses  of  that 
remote  land  ;  but,  after  all,  Hippo  Regius 
was  already  the  offspring  of  Carthage, 
Julia  Caesarea  was  but  the  Punic  lol,  and 
it  was  a  Phoenician,  not  a  Latin,  folk  who 
built  Tapsus  and  Igilgilis.  Far  inland, 
Cirta  had  frowned  from  her  mountain 
seat  long  before  the  Romans  had  ever 
heard  of  their  first  African  ally,  Masimssa 
and  the  dark-skinned  traders  at  Sicca 
Veneris  (Succoth-Benoth)  had  no  need  to 
know  Latin  to  transact  their  business 
with  the  Phoenician  merchants  who  fared 
to  the  City  of  the  Rock. 

To-day  the  Bedouin  wanders  where  of 
old  the  Roman  walked  in  pride.  To-day 
there  is  desolation,  or  but  a  new  and  often 
crude  amelioration  of  Moorish  undoing, 
where  in  that  far  yesterday  a  democratic 
civilisation  prevailed. 

An  immense  wave  of  civilisation,  indeed, 
must  have  spread  inland  from  Carthage- 
south-eastward,  westward,  and  along  the 
Mediterranean  coast.  It  was  swept  before 
the  more  potent  wave  of  Rome  as  mys- 
teriously as  its  far  greater  counterpart 
in  Etruria.  The  stronger  power  not  only 
absorbed  the  weaker,  but  obliterated  it. 
343 


Rome  in  Africa 

Nationality,  language,  nomenclature  even, 
perished,  or  underwent  as  radical  a  change 
as  the  name  of  the  Queen  City  itself.* 
Even  before  the  Byzantine  rule  the  trans- 
formation was  complete.  When  the  Van- 
dals came  as  a  crowd  of  destroying  locusts 
and  settled  upon  the  land,  from  the  frontiers 
of  Mauritania  to  Uthina  of  the  Buried 
Treasure  and  to  the  Syrtean  Gulf,  there 
could  hardly  have  been  a  trace  of  Punic 
domination  left  to  add  zest  to  the  barbaric 
mining  of  the  Roman  dominion. 

So  that  while  the  Latin  wanderer,  at 
the  time  of  the  close  of  the  second  Punic 
war,  would  still  have  found  the  Carthaginian 
race,  language,  and  manner  throughout 
the  African  Province,  he  would  have  dis- 
covered a  rapid  ebb  in  this  seven  centuries' 
tide,  even  after  the  crowning  triumph  of 
the  younger  Scipio.  His  son  might  traverse 
the  same  road  and  see  only  the  standards 
of  Rome,  salute  only  the  proconsular 
authority  instead  of  that  of  the  Soffete  of 
Carthage,  and  find  that  civis  Romanus 
sum  was  the  one  passport  for  the  orderly 
and  safe  faring  forth  to  which  he  had  set 

*  The  Punic  name  of  Carthage  was  Kartha- 
Hadatha  (Kart-Hadact),  which  on  Greek  lips 
became  Carchedon,  and,  on  Latin,  Carthago. 

344 


Rome  in  Africa 

himself.  It  might  even  be  that  his  grandson 
would  seek  in  vain  at  Sicca  Veneris  itself 
for  any  acknowledged  worshipper  of  the 
Sidonian  Ashtoreth  ;  in  vain  ask  at  Ubbo 
for  what  the  image -traders  of  Hippone  no 
longer  sold,  Baal-Hammon  having  vanished 
before  Jupiter  ;  and  it  might  well  be  that 
along  the  whole  seaboard,  from  Had- 
rumetum  (Susa)  to  Icosium  (Algiers),  he 
would  hear  the  children  answer  him  in  the 
same  tongue  that  he  himself  as  a  child 
had  heard  by  the  Tiber-side. 

It  was  not  till  long  after  the  destruction 
of  Carthage  by  Scipio  Africanus  the  Younger 
that  the  African  Province  was  marked 
off  into  great  colonies  or  states.  The 
Roman  domination,  indeed,  which  really 
began  during  the  sway  of  the  Numidian 
potentate  Masinissa,  was  not  frankly  dis- 
played till  the  accession  of  Micipsa.  So 
frank  was  it  that  when  the  great  Jugurtha 
succeeded  his  uncle,  no  Numidian  rose 
against  him  because  he  had  removed 
Hiempsal  and  Adherbal,  the  legitimate 
heirs,  and  this  because  he  had  declared 
war  to  the  death  against  the  rapacious 
power  which  had  swallowed  Carthage  and 
now  hungered  for  Numidia,  because  he 
had  refused  to  bow,  as  Micipsa  and  his 
345 


Rome  in  Africa 

sons  had  done,  before  a  Roman  legate. 
In  the  seven  years'  struggle  which  ensued, 
the  Republic  spilt  its  blood  freely,  and, 
as  though  the  Numidian  prince  were  another 
Hannibal,  sent  against  him  her  ablest 
generals.  Perhaps  even  the  conqueror 
Marius  would  not  have  achieved  his  crown- 
ing victory  but  for  the  treachery  of  Bocchus, 
King  of  Mauritania,  who  did  not  scruple 
to  betray  a  champion  who  was  at  once 
the  national  hero  and  his  son-in-law.  With 
the  fall  of  Jugurtha  the  dominion  of  Rome 
in  Africa  became  supreme.  The  nations 
beyond  the  eastern  Atlas,  even  the  nomad 
peoples  who  had  trafficked  with  the  Car- 
thaginians, and  brought  rumours  of  the 
vanished  glory  of  a  still  more  ancient 
Semitic  race  which  had  penetrated  the 
continent  as  far  as  the  Mountains  of  the 
Moon,  sent  ambassadors  to  Tunis,  to  Cirta, 
to  Hippone,  with  offers  of  alliance  and 
service.  Everywhere,  in  the  inland  cities 
as  well  as  in  the  towns  along  the  littoral, 
the  proconsular  authority  was  not  only 
sovran  but  autocratic. 

Let    us    glance    for    a    moment    at    the 

further    achievement    of    Rome    in    Africa 

before  the   Caesarean   division.     When   the 

third  Punic  war  ended    in  the  overthrow 

346 


Rome  in  Africa 

of  Carthage,  the  Romans  indulged  in  the 
mistake  of  believing  that  the  city,  as  well 
as  the  Phoenician  Empire,  had  been  utterly 
destroyed.  Almost  certainly  this  ruin  was 
not  that  complete  annihilation  which  the 
orators  of  the  Forum  proclaimed  to  the 
populace.  In  any  case,  thirty  years  later 
the  Punic  city  was  thoroughly  Romanised 
by  Caius  Gracchus.  As  Colonia  Carthago, 
in  the  period  of  Julius  Caesar  and  Augustus, 
it  was  one  of  the  finest  cities  of  the  empire. 
Its  utter  destruction  came  later,  when  the 
Vandal  overthrew  its  few  remaining  temples, 
when  the  Arab  strode  through  its  grass- 
grown  ways,  and  when  the  Turkish  horse 
stamped  on  the  fallen  marble  and  porphyry 
that  are  now  to  be  sought  in  the  byways 
of  Tunis,  or  in  the  towns  of  Italy  whither 
the  Pisan  and  Genoese  corsairs  blithely 
conveyed  them. 

It  was  in  the  proconsulate  of  Lucius 
Paulinus  that  the  Romans  overcame  the 
whole  of  Mauritania,  and  lifted  the  eagles 
of  Rome  against  the  farther  as  well  as 
the  hither  flanks  of  Atlas.  Under  Claudius, 
Roman  Africa  extended  from  the  Nile 
to  the  Atlantic  Ocean.  He  it  was  who 
divided  the  vast  province  of  Mauritania 
into  Tingitana  and  Mauritania  Caesariensis, 

347 


Rome  in  Africa 

the  former  with  Tingis  for  its  capital,  the 
latter  with  ancient  lol,  renamed  Julia 
Caesarea,  as  its  queen  city.  The  distinction 
has  endured  to  this  day,  though  Tangier  is 
no  longer  the  capital  of  the  Empire  of  Morocco 
(Tingitana),  and  Cherchell  is  but  a  small  sea- 
port in  the  great  French  colony  of  Algeria.* 

But,  before  this,  proconsular  Africa  had 
been  officially  organised.  Till  Csesar 
annexed  Numidia,  on  that  momentous 
occasion  when  he  fared  over  sea,  not  to 
fight  with  the  mountain-king  struggling 
for  independence,  but  to  quell  the  in- 
subordination of  the  Pompeiian  faction, 
who  would  fain  have  wrested  the  ancient 
Carthaginian  realm  from  his  grasp — till 
then,  the  African  Province  consisted  of 
Tripolitana,  Byzacium,  and  Zeugitana — 
that  is,  the  whole  extent  of  what  is  now 
the  Beylick  of  Tripoli  and  the  Regency 
of  Tunisia.  But,  with  the  absorption  of 
Numidia,  the  frontier  was  extended  so  as 
to  comprise  the  greater  part  of  what  is  now 
the  province  of  Constantine.  Beyond  Nu- 
midia the  whole  reach  of  country  was 
known  as  Mauritania. 

*  Mauritania  Caesariensis  comprised  what  is  now 
the  province  of  Oran  and  the  greater  part  of  that 
of  Algeria. 

348 


Rome  in  Africa 

It  was  not  till  74  B.C.  that  the  vast 
tract  to  the  east  of  Tripoli  ceased  to  be  a 
kingdom  and  became  part  of  Roman  Africa. 
With  Cyrenaica,  the  proconsular  dominion 
now  extended  from  Egypt  to  the  Atlantic. 
Caesar,  a  quarter  of  a  century  later,  de- 
finitively partitioned  the  country  into  the 
provinces  of  Zeugitana,  Numidia,  Mauri- 
tania Orientalis,  and  Mauritania  Occiden- 
talis — broadly,  Tunisia,  the  province  of 
Constantine,  Algeria  (with  the  province  of 
Oran),  and  the  empire  of  Morocco,  of 
to-day.  It  was  at  this  time  also  that  he 
placed  Numidia  under  the  rule  of  Sallust, 
who  proved  so  excellent  a  historian  and  so 
merciless  a  viceroy.  We  owe  too  much 
to  Sallust's  brilliant  record  of  Jugurtha 
and  the  Jugurthine  war  not  to  rejoice 
at  Caesar's  choice,  though  it  was  an  ill 
day  for  the  traders  of  Numidia  when 
the  cold,  keen,  cynical,  implacable  Roman 
aristocrat  took  over  the  government  of 
the  country,  and  bid  it  be  tributary  to 
him  and  to  the  state. 

By  this  time  Utica,  "  the  ancient  town," 
as  its  name  signifies,  which  was  a  flourish- 
ing Sidonian  colony  when  Dido  sailed  to 
Africa  from  Tyre  on  that  memorable 
expedition  which  ended  in  the  creation  of 
349 


Rome  in  Africa 

a  new  Phoenician  town  (Kartha-Hadatha, 
the  New  Town,  in  contradistinction  to 
Utica,  the  old),  had  been  made  the  metro- 
polis of  Roman  Africa.  It  had  seen  the 
outgoing  of  Hanno's  world-famous  armada 
to  seek  new  lands  (B.C.  446),  the  return  of 
Hamilcar  from  his  disastrous  attempt  to 
convert  Sicily  into  a  Sidonian  colony 
(B.C.  481),  and  was  itself  the  landing- 
place  and  captive  stronghold  of  Agathocles 
the  Greek,  in  the  day  when  Hellas  learned 
she  was  to  have  the  empire  of  the  world. 
It  had  watched  Dido  build  Carthage  ;  it 
had  witnessed  the  superb  efflorescence  of 
that  city  through  seven  centuries  ;  it 
had  seen  it  utterly  laid  waste  by  Scipio. 
Here  "  New  Rome  "  had  its  brief  dream  .  .  . 
to  pass  away  with  the  suicide  of  Cato 
within  these  ancient  walls.  Like  "  the 
patient  East,"  it  had  bowed  before  the 
storm,  and  it  survived  to  see  itself  inherit 
the  civic  dignity  of  its  sister  city.  But  its 
triumph  was  a  poor  one,  won  as  it  was 
through  wrong  and  meanness  and  treachery. 
Throughout  its  long  life  of  a  thousand 
years  it  never  accomplished  anything  great. 
Nor  does  it  seem  ever  to  have  been  beautiful 
and  a  place  of  joy,  as  was  Cyrene,  across 
the  gulf  to  the  east  ;  though  that  the 
350 


Rome  in  Africa 

decorative  arts  flourished  there  has  been 
proved  beyond  question.  To-day  it  consists 
of  the  wretched  Arab  village  of  Bou-Chater, 
set  in  a  waste  and  miasmic  place.  Few 
care  to  visit  it,  save  archaeologists.  Utica 
lived  a  thousand  years  or  more  ;  Tunis 
is  of  an  equal  antiquity  ;  but  an  hour 
of  the  Athens  of  Pericles  would  be  worth 
the  lifetime  of  a  Punic  trader,  and  a  day 
of  imperial  Rome  would  outweigh  the  petty 
chronicle  of  the  dull  aeon  of  the  town 
which,  Leo  Africanus  tells  us,  is  no  other 
than  Sidonian  Tarshish. 

Practically  all  North  Africa  was  now 
in  the  grip  of  Rome.  From  desert  Libya 
to  the  regions  of  the  mysterious  Troglo- 
dytae,  from  impenetrable  ^Ethiopia  north- 
westward to  the  Atlantic  littoral,  north- 
eastward to  superbly  fertile,  inexhaustible 
Africa  Propria,  the  whisper  of  Rome  was 
heard. 

To  have  won  this  mighty  conquest  was, 
of  itself,  an  imperial  destiny.  Rome  was 
now  inevitably  the  mistress  of  the  Western 
World.  With  proconsular  Africa  as  her 
base,  with  her  maritime  dominion  estab- 
lished along  the  whole  coast,  from  the 
prow  of  Sicily  to  ancient  Massilia,  and 
thence  by  subject  Spain  till  Europe  and 
351 


Rome  in  Africa 

Africa  met  face  to  face  at  the  narrow 
strait — "  fretum  nostri  maris,"  Sallust  writes, 
with  pride  in  the  possessive  pronoun — 
Rome  might  well  scan  with  eagle  eyes  the 
wide  vista  of  the  ancient  world,  from  the 
furthest  Asian  steppe  to  that  remote  hyper- 
borean region  of  which  barbarian  whispers 
had  already  reached  her  ears. 


II 

The  traveller  who  would  scrupulously 
examine  the  route  of  this  great  march  of 
Rome  in  North  Africa  could  not  do  so 
from  any  one  locality  on  the  Punic  coast 
with  intent  to  move  thence  undeviatingly 
westward  ;  for  the  feet  of  the  conquerors 
fared  now  this  way  and  now  that.  As 
we  have  seen,  Cyrenai'ca  became  a  Roman 
province  long  after  the  fires  of  Baal  had 
ceased  to  flame  on  the  Carthaginian  gulf, 
and  the  south  lands  were  accepted  tribu- 
taries when  Mauritania  was  still  ruled  in 
name  only,  and  when  the  tribes  of  Zeugi- 
tana  knew  Rome  more  as  a  rumour  than  as 
a  dread  actuality.  Uthina  and  Thysdrus, 
352 


Rome  in  Africa 

though  to  the  south  of  Carthage,  were 
occupied  (if  not  created)  by  Rome  later 
than  Sicca,  that  lay  under  the  eastward 
shadow  of  Numidia,  and  Cirta  was  still  a 
Berber  citadel  when  the  Italian  merchant 
galleys  were  moored  in  the  roadstead  of 
Hippone. 

But  if  this  pilgrim  would  traverse  the 
North  African  empire  from  end  to  end, 
not  with  too  careful  heed  to  the  steps  of 
Rome,  as  that  power  moved  this  way  and 
that  in  her  restless  quest  of  dominion,  but 
attentive  only  to  the  whole  reach  of  the 
domain  ultimately  acquired  by  her,  he 
would  do  well  to  start  from  that  plateau 
of  Barca  which  lies  between  the  eastern 
Tripolitan  frontier  and  the  extreme  of 
Egypt  ;  or,  better  still,  from  the  hither 
side  of  the  Djebel  Akabah-el-Kebir.  This 
was  the  Catabathmus  Magnus  of  the  Romans, 
and,  as  the  skirt  of  Egypt  was  the  re- 
cognised ancient  limits  of  Asia  and  Africa. 
From  the  earliest  times  Cyrenai'ca  was 
famous  for  its  fertility  and  beauty.  For 
hundreds  of  years  Cyrene  was,  in  the 
estimate  of  Greek,  Egyptian,  and  Roman, 
what  the  Arab  poets  afterwards  called 
Panormus  (Palermo) — the  Gate  of  Paradise. 
Though  Cyrenai'ca  has  been  a  region  of 

iv  353  z 


Rome  in  Africa 

desolation    since    the    Saracenic    invasion, 
following  on  the  ruin  wrought  upon  it  by 
the   Persian  satrap   Chosroes,   and  though 
the  five  vanished  cities  of  Pentapolis  were 
for  generations   the   haunts   of   the  jackal 
and  the  wandering  Bedouin,  the  traveller 
will  be  well  repaid  if  he  go  thither.     From 
the  site  of  Cyrene  itself  is  a  vista  of  sur- 
passing beauty  ;    near  the  forlorn  modern 
village  are  the  marvellous  stalactitic  caves 
which  gave  rise  to  the  once  familiar  tales 
of  a  petrified  city.     But,  above  all,  what 
memories,  what  visions,  of  what  here  was 
once  so  real,  of  what  befell  here  in  that 
dim  long  ago  ! 

Herodotus  tells  us  that  at  so  remote  a 
date  as  the  37th  Olympiad  (about  B.C. 
628)  a  colony  of  Greeks  was  guided  by  a 
chief  of  the  Libyan  nomads  to  this  garden  of 
Africa,  and  that  the  Dorian  leader,  finding 
a  spring  of  inexhaustible  pure  water,  dedi- 
cated the  fountain  to  Apollo,  settled  close 
by,  and  called  the  place  Kyre — whence 
probably  Cyrene,  though  the  name  is 
claimed  to  have  been  given  by  Aristseus 
in  memory  of  his  mother,  that  "  daughter 
of  Peneus  "  of  whom  Apollo  had  become 
enamoured.  To  this  day  one  may  hear 
from  Arab  lips  the  echo  of  the  old  Dorian 

354 


Rome  in  Africa 

name  in  Kurin,  as  in  the  instance  of  the 
four  other  towns  of  Pentapolis,  of  Barca 
(Apollonia),  Ptolemais,  Berenice,  and  Tau- 
chira  (Arsinoe),  in  Barca,  Tollamata,  Bernic, 
and  Tanker  a. 

Howsoever  it  was  founded,  and  what- 
ever the  vicissitudes  the  kingdom  of  which 
it  formed  part  endured,  Cyrene  was  a 
republic  in  the  time  of  Aristotle,  and,  as 
Sallust  has  told  us,  was  potent  enough  to 
dispute  with  Carthage  the  question  of 
what  would  now  be  called  a  scientific 
frontier.  Cyrenaica  became,  as  already 
mentioned,  a  Roman  province  in  B.C.  76, 
having  been  transferred  from  the  empire 
of  the  Ptolemies  to  the  custody  of  the 
Roman  Senate  as  a  free  gift  or  bequest  on 
the  part  of  Apio  the  Tranquil. 

But  the  stranger,  standing  on  the  terraced 
uplands  that  overlook  what  was  Penta- 
polis, and  pondering  what  this  ancient 
Libyan  country  might  have  become  had 
Cyrene  outvantaged  Carthage  in  the  struggle 
for  supremacy  ;  had  Cyrenaica,  with  Greece 
and  Egypt  behind  her,  risen  as  mistress 
of  the  Mediterranean,  in  despite  of  Phoenicia 
and  in  affront  of  Rome — the  visitor  to 
this  sun -scorched  loneliness  will  also  re- 
member that  it  was  here  the  wise  Aristippus 

355 


Rome  in  Africa 

preached  his  hedonistic  doctrine,  to  the 
scandal  of  all  Christian  moralists  ever 
since  ;  that  here  were  born  Eratosthenes 
the  historian  and  Callimachus  the  poet  ; 
and  that  hence  went  that  nameless  Jew 
whom  the  Roman  soldiery  compelled  to 
bear  one  end  of  the  cross  whereon  Christ 
was  crucified.  Strange  indeed  that  the 
Jews  resorted  thither  in  such  numbers, 
even  before  the  Christian  era  !  Was  this 
the  reason  why  Cyrene  lost  its  high  estate  ? 
Was  it  that  the  worshipper  of  Apollo  would 
not  bide  the  Hebrew  fanatic  ?  Cyrenian 
Jews,  as  we  know,  were  present  at  Jerusalem 
on  the  day  of  Pentecost  ;  and  are  we  not 
told  in  the  Acts  of  the  Apostles  that 
Christian  Jews  of  Cyrene,  fleeing  with  their 
Cyprian  comrades  from  the  wrath  of  their 
countrymen  and  rulers,  were  the  first 
preachers  of  Christianity  to  the  Greeks 
of  Antioch  ?  But  before  the  Jews,  before 
the  Romans,  Cyrenai'ca  was  the  beautiful 
land  of  Apollo  and  Aphrodite,  Cyrene 
the  fair  city  whose  fountains  and  proud 
steeds  were  immortalised  by  Pindar. 

It  is  a  matter  of  choice  whether  the  start 
in  the  footsteps  of  Rome  be  made  from 
Susa  or  Tunis.  From  his  own  experience 

356 


Rome  in  Africa 

the  present  writer  would  suggest,  for  a 
trip  limited  to  French  Africa,  and  to 
exclude  the  pachalik  of  Tripoli,  a  visit  to 
Tunis  and  Carthage  first,  and  then  to  go  by 
steamer  to  Susa,  whence  after  some  swallow- 
flights  to  the  north  and  south,  to  strike 
westward.  But,  for  convenience'  sake,  let 
us  suppose  that  we  are  bound  for  Susa 
by  the  inland  route,  via  Oudina,  Zaghouan, 
and  Kairouan,  and  that  we  have  already 
visited  Utica  and  Carthage  and  the  Hermean 
Promontory. 

It  is  a  beautiful  as  well  as  fascinating 
journey  from  Tunis  as  far  as  Zaghouan, 
and  can  be  done  in  one  day  if  an  early 
start  be  made,  so  as  to  allow  from  three 
to  five  hours  for  tramping  over  the  five 
or  six  mile  area  of  ruined  Uthina  (Oudina). 
How  well  I  remember  that  glorious  spring 
day  when,  after  having  driven  some  fourteen 
kilometres  from  Tunis,  leaving  on  the  right 
the  great  salt  lake  called  Sebka-es-Sedjoumi, 
and  having  passed  through  the  desolate 
ruins  of  Mohammedia,  I  saw  for  the  first 
time  the  great  aqueduct  which,  in  ancient 
days,  carried  along  its  sixty -mile  reach  from 
Mount  Zaghouan  seven  million  gallons 
of  water  a  day  into  Carthage.  There  is 
nothing  more  impressive  in  the  world 
357 


Rome  in  Africa 

than  this  vast  creature,  as  it  seems,  that 
appears  to  move  majestically  along  the 
plain,  now  so  desolate  and  filled  with  the 
dust  of  oblivion,  but  once  alive  with  Punic 
industry  and  the  commerce  of  great  and 
populous  Roman  cities.  Even  those  tra- 
vellers who  have  seen  the  superb  aqueduct 
near  Nimes,  in  Provence,  even  those  who 
have  looked  with  wonder  and  admiration 
at  the  mighty  ruins  which  serrate  the 
Campagna  as  though  they  were  impregnable 
barriers  of  reef  in  the  grip  of  the  sea,  must 
admit  that  this  Carthaginian  aqueduct, 
perhaps  the  greatest  work  wrought  by  the 
Romans  in  North  Africa,  is  a  not  less 
mighty  achievement.  Here,  too,  one  may 
see  the  solitary  goatherd  standing  beneath 
some  giant  arch,  within  his  eyes  the  mystery 
of  the  great  silence  and  greater  loneliness  ; 
but  here  he  is  of  a  race  more  ancient  even 
than  that  of  the  Campagna  shepherd,  is 
clothed  in  a  long  grey-white  robe  instead 
of  in  goat -skins,  and  for  austere  greeting 
or  response  has  only  "  Allah  is  great  !  "  * 

*  Most  of  the  shepherds  employed  in  this  part 
of  Tunisia  are  Berbers  from  the  eastern  Aures,  and 
are  racially  quite  distinct  from  the  nomad  Arabs, 
whom  they  resemble  so  much  in  most  respects,  and 
with  whom  they  are  at  one  in  religion.  They  are 

358 


Rome  in  Africa 

It  is  a  common  mistake  in  Tunis — due 
largely  to  the  ignorant  misrepresentation 
of  the  so-called  "  guides,"  not  one  of  whom 
is  worth  the  five  francs  a  day  he  is  wont 
to  demand  for  what  he  euphemistically 
calls  his  services — that  Punic  Carthage 
benefited  by  this  great  aqueduct.  Even 
when  Caius  Gracchus  rebuilt  the  city  that 
thirty  years  earlier  had  been  laid  in  ruins 
by  the  younger  Scipio,  the  inhabitants 
were  dependent  mainly  upon  their  storage 
from  rainfall  ;  largely  in  the  primitive 
manner  to  be  seen  at  this  day  at  Sfax, 
where  the  innumerable  gourd-shaped  rain- 
receptacles  at  first  puzzle  the  stranger. 
It  was  not  till  the  indefatigable  Hadrian 
(in  A.D.  120)  was  induced  by  the  wealthy 
citizens  of  New  Carthage  to  bridge  the 
distance  between  them  and  Mons  Zeugi- 
tanus — a  gigantic  undertaking,  not  ade- 
quately completed  till  the  reign  of  Septimius 
Severus — that  the  Carthaginian  could  stoop, 
as  his  Moorish  or  French  fellow  citizen  of 
to-day  can  do,  and  drink  the  clear  cold 

of  that  ancient  race  which  inhabited  Africa  not 
only  before  the  arrival  of  the  Romans,  but  before 
Utica  had  a  rival  in  Carthage,  probably  before  the 
first  Sidonian  ever  adventured  beyond  the  Hermean 
Promontory. 

359 


Rome  in  Africa 

mountain  water  within  the  gates  of  the 
city.  Alas  !  this  magnificent  work  was  to 
share  the  fate  which  overtook  its  Campagna 
prototype.  When  Gilimer,  the  last  of  the 
Vandal  kings,  brought  his  hordes  to  besiege 
Carthage,  he  ordered  its  partial  destruction, 
as  a  material  aid  in  the  investiture  of  the 
unfortunate  city  ;  and  though,  later,  it 
was  restored  by  the  Byzantine  general 
Belisarius,  its  still  more  disastrous  ruin 
was  accomplished  during  the  great  Arab 
invasion  which  followed  the  heroic  gallop 
across  Africa  of  Mohammed's  friend  and 
fiery  lieutenant,  Okba-bin-Nafa.  So  mighty 
were  the  vast  arches,  so  huge  the  span  of 
their  collective  length,  that  there  was  even 
yet  scope  for  barbaric  havoc  on  the  part 
of  the  Spaniards  when  Charles  V.  sent 
his  enormous  cosmopolitan  armada  to  the 
undoing  of  the  corsair  stronghold.  For  gene- 
rations the  broken  skeleton  was  extant, 
though,  indeed,  even  its  de vertebrate  parts 
bid  fair  to  vanish  altogether  through  fan- 
atical ignorance  on  the  one  hand  and  selfish 
folly  on  the  other.  Then  the  French 
engineering  genius  came  to  the  rescue,  and 
to-day  any  one  who  will  visit  the  great 
cistern  and  fountain  just  within  that  south- 
eastern gate  of  Tunis  known  as  the  Bab 
360 


Rome  in  Africa 

Sidi  Abdullah-esh-Sherif  will  see  as  copious 
and  rejoicing  a  flood  of  pure  mountain 
water  as  that  which  in  Rome  gushes  forth 
from  the  conduits  of  the  Acqua  Paolo  on 
the  Janiculum,  or  whirls  its  spray  over  the 
doves  which  ceaselessly  flit  to  and  fro  above 
the  fount  of  Trevi. 

A  mile  or  two  from  Oued,  Melian  (or 
Miliana,  a  common  name  for  a  stream, 
signifying  "  ample  "  or  "  full  ")  is  crossed— 
and  the  traveller  will  have  already  rightly 
guessed  it  to  be  the  Catada  of  Ptolemy — 
the  rough  path  for  Oudina  breaks  off  to  the 
left.  The  aqueduct  is  left  behind,  and  one 
bears  south-eastward  through  an  ever- 
increasing  number  of  megalithic  and  other 
ruins. 

I  found  the  country  of  a  singular  desola- 
tion and  wildness,  though  not  without 
some  faint-hearted  signs  of  agricultural 
industry  here  and  there.  Only  once  on 
the  way  did  we  encounter  a  human  being 
in  motion,  an  Arab  from  Kairouan,  mounted 
on  a  camel.  I  say  in  motion,  for  twice 
we  caught  sight  of  ragged  Bedouin  goat- 
herds prone  among  the  dry  reedy  grass, 
as  lifeless  apparently  as  bronze  statues, 
save  for  the  watchful  gleam  in  their  dark 
eyes. 

361 


Rome  in  Africa 

I  admit  to  a  difficulty  in  speaking  with- 
out undue  enthusiasm  about  this  wide- 
spread wilderness  of  ruins  that  once  was 
Uthina.  Carthage,  though  it  is  but  a  site, 
after  all,  with  few  external  aids  for  the 
recreative  imagination,  has  a  lovelier  view, 
seaward  and  across  the  great  gulf,  and 
inland  by  the  mountain  range,  from  cleft 
Bou-Kornein  to  the  gigantic  shadow  of 
what  to  the  Romans  was  Mons  Zeugitanus  ; 
Tebessa  is  more  magnificent  in  her  ruin  ; 
Timgad  has  a  more  swift  appeal  to  the  eye  ; 
the  hundred  other  ruined  towns,  inland  or 
by  the  sea,  or  high  set  among  the  hills, 
have  each  their  own  grandeur,  beauty, 
or  desolate  impressiveness.  But,  as  to 
every  one  there  is  one  paramount  loveliness, 
one  particular  mountain  range  or  happy 
valley,  one  signally  fortunate  marriage  of 
land  and  sea,  or  one  rarest  town,  village, 
or  homestead,  so  there  is  for  most  of  us 
one  place  of  ancient  ruin  of  an  incom- 
parable haunting  charm.  No  association 
is  to  be  held  to  account  here,  for  almost 
nothing  is  known  of  this  ancient  city. 
No  one  can  tell  when  Oudina  grew  up  in  the 
desert,  or  if  the  Roman  town  was  super- 
imposed on  a  Phoenician  site.  One  French 
authority  has  suggested  its  identity  with  the 
362 


Rome  in  Africa 

Tricamaron,  where  the  hoarded  treasure  of 
Genseric  was  accumulated,  till  Belisarius 
and  his  Byzantine  troops  annihilated  the 
Vandals  under  Gilimer  ;  but  this  is  surmise 
only.  It  has  no  history,  save  that  it  rose, 
flourished,  fell,  and  disappeared.  "But  it 
must  have  been  an  immense  city,  second 
perhaps  only  to  Carthage  itself.  There  is 
peril  for  the  unwary  explorer  searching 
amidst  the  debris  of  the  amphitheatre, 
the  theatre,  the  huge  reservoirs,  the  inchoate 
citadel,  and  that  vast  and  nameless  ruin 
further  to  the  eastward  ;  for  at  any  moment 
he  may  be  precipitated  into  some  obscure 
chasm,  half  hid  by  impending  slabs  of  stone 
or  by  rank  weeds.  Indeed,  anywhere  within 
a  radius  of  three  or  four  miles  he  must 
perforce  be  vigilant,  particularly  if  mounted 
on  mule  or  horse  back.  What  a  superb 
view  can  be  had  from  any  point  amid  this 
voiceless,  lifeless  desolation  !  To  the  west, 
the  lonely  plain  with  the  serpentine 
aqueduct  ;  to  the  south  and  east,  the 
Zeugitanian  mountain  range  ;  to  the  north 
the  shine  of  the  sea  beyond  the  white 
splat ch  that  is  Tunis,  with,  it  may  be,  a 
gleam  of  golden  light  flashing  upon  Sidi- 
bou-Said,  the  Arab  village  on  the  summit 
of  the  headland  immediately  to  the  west 

363 


Rome  in  Africa 

of  Carthage.  Voiceless  and  lifeless  only 
in  the  hot  months  ;  for  in  winter  and  early 
spring  one  will  be  annoyed  by  a  wild 
barking  of  shepherd  dogs,  as  fretful  and 
suspicious  if  not  so  malignant  as  those 
of  the  Campagna  ;  and  will  catch  glimpses 
of  the  proud,  resentful  Bedouin  Arabs, 
who  have  their  gourbis  among  the  boulder- 
like  ruins  on  the  citadel  heights.  I  know 
not  why  those  Oudina  nomads  struck  me 
as  more  barbaric  in  mien  than  the  Bedouin 
of  other  parts,  and  forlorn  almost  as  the 
troglodyte  Berbers  whom  ere  this  I  had 
seen  beyond  Tlem^en,  near  the  Morocco 
frontier,  but  so  it  was.  What  memorable 
hours  these  that  we  spent  in  silent  Uthina  ! 
For  visible  record  I  have  but  a  little  coin, 
found  amidst  a  tangle  of  stone  and  weed. 
Alas  !  I  am  no  numismatist,  and  so  learned 
little  from  my  treasure -trove,  though  now 
I  know  it  to  be  Byzantine  money  of  the 
reign  of  Const antine  the  Great  (circa  A.D. 
300). 

Twenty  miles  further  south  bring  one 
to  the  ancient  capital  of  Africa  Propria. 
Zaghouan  is,  however,  a  disappointing 
place  ;  the  few  streets  are  insignificant 
and  malodorous  ;  there  is  no  inn  where 
a  European  can  lodge,  or  even  obtain 
364 


Rome  in  Africa 

provision  ;  and  the  general  air  of  the 
inhabitants  seems  equivalent  to  saying  that 
all  the  infidels  in  the  world  are  not  worth 
one  fez,  the  manufacture  of  which  head- 
piece, or  rather  the  dyeing  of  it,  is  the 
hereditary  trade  and  sole  occupation  of 
the  Zaghouanite.  But  the  beautiful  and 
romantically  situated  little  Roman  temple 
in  the  valley  of  Ain  Ayah  is,  to  the  said 
infidels,  worth  all  the  fezzes  betwixt  Tangier 
and  Stambool.  There  is  a  delicious  fount, 
where  one's  mind  may  have  iced  fancies 
while  the  body  cools.  In  Zaghouan  itself 
nothing  of  ancient  Zeugis  is  to  be  seen, 
except  possibly  the  Roman  Mauresque 
gate  called  Bab-el-Goos. 

In  the  long  journey  from  Zaghouan  to 
Kairouan  the  river  has  to  be  crossed,  and 
then  there  is  a  dreary  tract  of  desert  to 
be  traversed.  As  the  Holy  City  of  North 
Africa,  ranking  as  it  does  before  Sidi-bou- 
Medine,  near  Tlemcen,  or  even  the  Oasis 
of  Sidi  Okba,  in  the  Sahara,  it  is  of  great 
interest  ;  but  for  the  Roman  enthusiast  it 
has  no  immediate  appeal.  It  has  been 
claimed  that  this  African  Mecca  was  before 
Mohammed's  day  a  ruined  Roman  city  ; 
but  in  support  of  this  no  reputable  authority 
can  be  cited,  and  the  very  significance  of 

365 


Rome  in  Africa 

the  name  (caravanserai)  has  been  held  to 
indicate  that  it  was  an  Arab  town  from 
the  first.  The  only  Roman  remains  in 
Kairouan,  indeed,  are  the  marble  and 
porphyry  columns  of  the  Zaonia  of  Sidi 
Okba  ;  but  these  spoils  of  conquest  did 
not  even  come  from  one  place,  fallen 
Uthina  or  ruined  Zama,  but  were  gathered 
from  out  the  general  dissolution  of  Roman 
Ifrikia. 

From  Kairouan  to  Susa  is  an  easy  and 
monotonous  journey.  But  when  once  the 
beautiful  town  is  reached  there  is  no  more 
monotony,  within  or  without  its  boundaries, 
for  him  who  is  on  the  track  of  Rome. 
Here  he  is  in  the  fateful  Hadrumetum 
(Adrumetum),  near  which  Hannibal  landed 
when  he  returned  from  Italy  to  save  the 
tottering  Carthaginian  Empire,  and  whither 
erelong  he  fled  after  his  crushing  and  final 
defeat  on  the  field  of  Zama.  Here,  too, 
Caesar  landed  with  his  small  army  when  he 
came  to  bind  Africa  indissolubly  to  Rome. 
From  that  day  to  this  Hadrumetum  Susa 
has  never  failed  to  be  one  of  the  chief 
places  on  the  African  littoral,  regarded  by 
the  Turks  as  of  supreme  importance  strategi- 
cally, coveted  by  the  foiled  Italians,  and 
now  being  fortified  by  the  French,  as  one 
366 


Rome  in  Africa 

of  their  most  valuable  seaports,  though, 
as  yet,  Tunisia  is  French  in  fact  only 
and  not  in  name,  for  the  fiction  of  the 
Beylik  or  Regency  is  still  maintained. 

If  the  traveller  will  take  his  stand  near 
the  Old  Sea-Gate  (Bab-el-Bahr)  he  will 
not  only  be  able  to  discover  the  remains 
of  the  Roman  breakwater,  but  may  also 
give  his  imagination  free  play.  If  it  cannot 
picture  stirring  and  dramatic  visions  at 
Hadrumetum,  not  for  him  is  the  joy  of 
this  Roman  quest  !  Older,  however,  it 
is  than  the  date  of  the  first  Scipionic  in- 
vasion ;  older  even  than  Carthage,  we  are 
told  by  Sallust.  Possibly  it  was  founded 
by  colonists  from  Cyrenaica  ;  more  likely 
by  merchants  from  Tyre.  Dido  must  have 
passed  it  on  her  westward  voyage  ;  centuries 
later  Genseric  and  his  Vandals  stared  from 
its  walls  at  the  last  Roman  galleys  sinking 
in  the  roadstead. 

And  now  when  one  is  pleasantly 
quartered  at  the  Hotel  de  France  in  Susa, 
one  should  plan  out  the  of  ten -vary  ing  but 
ever-converging  route  of  the  Roman  march 
— the  route  he  would  fain  follow  so  as  to 
see  all  there  is  really  worth  seeing. 

Few,  alas,  can  have  this  good  hap. 
Here,  at  any  rate,  I  must  perforce  omit 
367 


Rome  in  Africa 

description,  or  even  mention,  of  scores  of 
interesting  Roman  sites,  and  still  more 
interesting  Roman  remains.  It  would  be 
an  impossible  task,  in  truth.  As  an  eminent 
archaeologist  has  estimated,  a  complete  list 
of  Roman  remains  of  towns  and  villages 
would  extend  to  well  over  six  hundred 
enumerations.  Even  the  seventy  colonies 
and  thirty -one  municipice  are  beyond  my 
present  scope.  It  may  be  as  well  to  add 
here,  however,  that  past  importance  is 
never  to  be  measured  by  present  extent. 
Thus  Tunis  was  but  the  insignificant  Tunes 
and  Tlemsen — the  Athens,  the  Florence, 
the  Cyrene,  of  Moorish  Barbary — was  but 
the  unimportant  Pomaria,  lovely  then  as 
now  for  its  olive-trees  and  fruitful  plenty, 
but  held  only  for  its  gifts  of  fruit  and  grain, 
while  the  wretched  nomad  villages  of 
Dougga  and  Chemtou  and  Madaourouch 
overlie  Thysdrus  and  Simittu  and  Madaura. 
As  only  a  few  can  be  alluded  to,  then,  let 
the  most  interesting  only  be  chosen.  Broadly 
the  line  of  march,  after  some  more  or  less 
abrupt  divagations,  at  first  will  strike  from 
royal  Thysdrus  (El  Djem)  across  Tunisia 
to  Zama.  The  battle-field  of  Zama,  or 
Djama,  is  on  the  Tunisian  frontier,  and 
may  most  conveniently  be  reached  from 
368 


Rome  in  Africa 

El  Kef,  though  the  nearest  point  is  the 
place  familiar  to  archaeologists  as  Narra- 
garra.  No  one  knows  exactly  where  this, 
one  of  the  most  momentous  battles  of 
history,  was  actually  fought,  though  Sallust 
indicates  it  with  approximate  exactitude. 
El  Kef  itself  can  now  easily  be  gained  from 
Souk-el- Arba,  which  is  also  the  best  starting- 
place  for  the  splendid  ruins  of  ancient 
Bulla  Regia,  and  for  Simittu  and  its  marble 
quarries,  or  from  Souk-Ahras,  whence  it 
is  easy  to  visit  the  majestic  ruins  of  Khamisa, 
second  only  in  archaeological  value  to  those 
of  Tebessa  and  Timgad.  Though  "  Thurs- 
day's Market,"  as  the  name  signifies  (Souk- 
el-Khamis),  ceased  to  be  Thubursicum 
early  in  the  history  of  Caesarean  Africa, 
its  name  survived  it  eight  centuries  in 
the  Arabic  Teboursouk.  In  the  dark  ages 
since  the  fourteenth  century  even  the 
mutilated  name  of  this  great  and  important 
city  was  utterly  forgotten.  Thubursicum 
became  simply  "Thursday-Market  Ruins." 

It  is  only  three  miles  from  Teboursouk 
to  Dugga,  name  almost  identical  with  the 
Thugga  of  Ptolemy,  with  its  lovely  temple 
of  the  Corinthian  order  and  fragmentary 
Punic  mausoleum  ;  and  thence  it  is  an  easy 
journey  to  upland  Thignica  (Tunga  or 

iv  369  2  A 


Rome  in  Africa 

Dunga  now),  with  its  even  more  beautiful 
temple,  and  a  glorious  view  scarcely  inferior 
to    that    from    Uthina.     Near    by    is    the 
wild    picturesque    glen    of    the    Bachairet 
Essay oda,  "  the  valley  of  lions,"  of  which 
Sir  Grenville  Temple  says  that  he  had  been 
informed  by  the  Caid  of  Teboursouk  that 
four  evenings  before  he  passed  through  it 
sixteen  lions  had  been  seen  there  together. 
The  whole  country  hereabouts  is  wild  and 
lonely,    and    the    traveller,    particularly    if 
he  be  alone,  will  do  well  to  be  circumspect. 
When  Dr.  Davis  entered  Khamisa  (Tebour- 
souk) he  was  assailed,  he  says,  with  such 
ejaculations  from  the  Arabs  as  :    "  The  fire 
is  kindled  for  you  !  "     "Oh  you  unbelieving 
son  of  hell  !  "     "  Despiser  of  the  Prophet 
doomed  to  everlasting  fire  !  "  and   "  Filth 
of   the  earth,   your  haughtiness   will  soon 
be  brought   low  !  "     Personally   I   encoun- 
tered  little    of    this    animosity   in    Africa. 
In    fact,    I    heard    really    abusive    terms 
nowhere  save  among  the  fanatics  at  the 
Holy   Town   of   the   Sahara,   the   Oasis   of 
Sidi    Okba.     But    Souk-Ahras    touches    us 
more,    for   this   was   the    ancient   Tagaste, 
whose  chief  claim  to  remembrance  is  that 
here,    in    the    fourth     century    (A.D.    354), 
the  wife  of  a  decurion  of  the  city  named 
370 


Rome  in  Africa 

Patricius   gave   birth   to   a   man   child   to 
become    known    throughout    the    Christian 
world  as  St.  Augustine.     Here  the  youth 
lived  till  he  was  sixteen,  when  he  went  as 
a    student    across    the    hills    to    Madaura, 
then   a   city   of  renown  for  its   scholastic 
training.     When  here  he  must  often  have 
walked    over   the    same    hilly    uplands    as 
Apuleius  (Madaura 's  glory)  had  been  wont 
to  do,  and  pondered  the  Christian  heresy 
while    reading    one    of    the    sweet    pagan 
"books"   of    The   Golden   Ass.     He   could 
not  have  left  a  laurel  wreath  on  the  tomb 
of  the  great  African  writer,  for  Apuleius 
was   buried   at    (Ea    (the   modern  Tripoli), 
of  which  place  his  wife  was  a  native.     From 
Madaura,    no    doubt    with    frequent    visits 
to  the  large  city  of  Tipasa   (whose  ruins 
as  Tifesch  can  be  seen  in  the  magnificently 
fertile  valley  of  that  name,  not  far  from 
Madaourouch),  Augustine  went  to  Carthage. 
Thence,   in   the   year   373,   and   as   a   dis- 
tinguished scholar,  he  returned  to  Tagaste, 
where,   despite  his   profession   as   a  gram- 
marian,   he   lived,    as   he   tells   us    in   the 
Confessions,  "  in  a  manner  to  cause  the  most 
profound  affliction  to  his  mother."  Thirteen 
years  later  he  was  converted  to  Christianity 
by  the  saintly  Monica,  and  in  A.D.  390  he 
371 


Rome  in  Africa 

was  ordained  a  priest  at  Hippone  (close 
to  the  modern  Bona,  the  Ubbo  of  the 
Carthaginians,  the  Hippo  Regius  of  the 
Romans,  and  then,  as  now,  one  of  the  most 
opulent  towns  of  the  African  littoral), 
and  here  for  thirty -five  years  he  lived 
as  priest  and  bishop.  He  had  collected 
his  famous  library  and  written  The  City 
of  God  and  his  Confessions  when  the  Vandals 
descended  upon  doomed  Roman  Africa. 
He  died  before  the  city  fell,  after  its  long 
fourteen  months'  siege,  and  it  is  enough 
to  set  against  the  ill  name  given  to  these 
Northmen  that  in  the  ruining  of  the  town 
they  spared  the  MSS.  and  the  library  of 
the  far-famed  Christian  bishop. 

If,  before  leaving  Tunisia,  however,  the 
traveller  makes  a  southward  journey  from 
El  Kef,  so  as  to  visit  Hydra,  the  ancient 
Ammaedara,  with  its  remarkable  and  beauti- 
ful triumphal  arch,  he  can  reach  Tebessa, 
and  thence  make  his  way  on  mule -back 
or  camel-back  south-westerly  to  the  Ziban 
and  the  Sahara,  for  Biskra  and  El  Kantara  ; 
or  westerly,  on  horseback  or  in  a  light 
vehicle,  by  way  of  Ain-Khrenchela,  Timgad, 
and  Lambessa,  to  Batna  and  Constantine  ; 
or,  again,  due  north  by  the  French  military 
railway  through  the  Madaourouch  country, 
372 


Rome  in  Africa 

to  Souk-Ahras,  whence  by  rail  westward 
to  Const antine,  northward  to  Bona,  or 
eastward  to  Tunis. 

Tebessa  the  lordly  Theveste  of  old, 
most  splendid  of  all  extinct  Roman  towns 
in  Roman  Africa,  is  entered  from  the 
west,  past  an  ancient  aqueduct,  and 
through  the  Gate  of  Solomon.  If  ap- 
proached (and  whether  one  enters  by  the 
Gate  of  Solomon  or  the  Arch  of  Caracalla 
—the  Bab-el-Djedid — it  will  be  through  a 
country  literally  studded  with  Roman 
remains,  a  country  of  great  richness  and 
beauty,  notable  for  its  ample  water-supply 
and  its  innumerable  gardens)  on  a  market- 
day,  one  will  wonder  at  the  enormous 
quantity  of  sheep,  goats,  and  cattle  brought 
in  by  the  neighbouring  tribes.  We  are 
now  at  the  important  Roman  junction 
to  ancient  Constantine,  Hippone  on  the 
north,  Lambessa  on  the  west,  and  Tacape 
(Gabes)  on  the  Syrtean  Gulf,  the  goal  of 
the  great  highway  constructed  in  the  reign 
of  Hadrian  to  connect  Africa  Inferior  with 
Carthage — a  road,  as  we  learn  from  a 
Roman  inscription,  191  miles  700  paces 
in  length,  and  made  by  that  famous  Third 
Augustan  Legion  which  has  left  so  many 
traces  in  western  Numidia.  The  Romans 
373 


Rome  in  Africa 

always  had  a  keen  eye  for  sites  combining 
beauty,  health,  and  utility,  and,  except 
Tlemcen,  it  is  doubtful  if  there  is  any 
place  in  North  Africa  more  fortunately 
situated  than  Tebessa.  After  Carthage  and 
Constantine,  moreover,  it  ranks  next  in 
point  of  historic  interest.  To  the  student 
of  the  rise  of  Christianity  it  will  appeal 
as  one  of  the  first  African  cities  to  follow 
the  example  of  Carthage,  about  A.D.  150, 
and  as  the  place  of  martyrdom  of  St. 
Maximilian  during  the  proconsulate  of 
Dion,  and  of  St.  Crispin  in  the  reign  of 
Diocletian.  By  the  student  of  the  Vandal 
invasion  of  southern  Europe  and  North 
Africa  it  will  be  remembered  as  one  of 
the  chief  towns  of  the  Vandal  Kingdom, 
in  accordance  with  the  treaty  in  443  between 
Genseric  and  Valentinian,  Emperor  of  the 
West.  But  the  Vandal  genius  was  neither 
constructive  nor  conservative,  even  when 
not  actively  anarchic.  Tebessa  sank  into 
a  depopulated  town  of  little  importance 
till  the  coming  of  that  regenerative  Byzan- 
tine tide  which  succeeded  the  Vandalian 
scourge.  The  great  Byzantine  general 
Solomon,  the  successor  of  Belisarius,  re- 
stored Theveste,  though,  after  his  four 
years'  struggle  with  the  widespread  revolt 
374 


Rome  in  Africa 

which  broke  out  after  the  departure  of 
Belisarius,  he  was  himself  doomed  to  meet 
death  in  battle  before  the  walls  of  his 
favourite  town  (A.D.  543) — a  disaster  that 
was  followed  by  the  second  and  final 
collapse  of  Theveste.  The  only  known 
record  on  stone  concerning  the  Vandal  in- 
vasion which  has  as  yet  been  discovered 
in  Africa  is  the  inscription  on  the  triumphal 
arch  of  Tebessa — of  singular  value,  there- 
fore. Though  the  town  and  neighbourhood 
are  full  of  Roman  remains  of  great  interest 
and  beauty,  even  in  their  mutilated  con- 
dition, there  are  two  buildings  of  paramount 
interest — the  Triumphal  Arch  of  Caracalla 
and  the  Basilica.  The  splendid  quadrifons 
arch  is  superior  in  every  respect  to  that 
of  Janus  in  Rome.  It  is  built  with  large 
solid  blocks  of  cut  stone,  and  has  many 
singular  features  which  would  attract  the 
architect.  The  vast  Basilica,  a  short  dis- 
tance to  the  north-east  of  modern  Tebessa, 
is  one  of  the  most  interesting  examples  of 
the  Roman  genius  to  be  found  in  Africa. 
Its  immense  size,  its  beauty,  its  manifold 
interest,  make  it  worthy  to  be  the  goal  of 
an  enthusiastic  archaeologist.  The  wealth 
of  mosaics,  many  of  great  beauty,  is 
extraordinary.  Here,  too,  was  found  an 
375 


Rome  in  Africa 

instance  of  the  remarkable  embalming 
secrets  which  the  Romans  had  learned 
from  Egypt.  When  the  sepulchral  chamber 
was  examined  a  few  years  ago  the  tomb  of 
Palladius,  Bishop  of  Idicia,  was  opened, 
and  the  shrivelled  frame,  with  its  undecayed 
brown  hair  resting  on  a  bed  of  laurel  leaves, 
was  disclosed  in  perfect  preservation,  and 
this  after  the  lapse  of  fourteen  centuries. 

From  Tebessa  one  may  without  serious 
difficulty  make  one's  way  across  country 
to  the  Sahara  by  way  of  Seriana.  Thence 
he  will  go  to  Biskra  the  Beautiful  (ad 
Piscinam),  which  to  the  present  writer 
seems  an  almost  ideal  winter  resort  for 
invalids  needing  a  dry,  rainless,  and  warm 
climate,  and  a  place  of  endless  charm  and 
interest — Queen  Oasis  of  the  Sahara,  as 
it  is  deservedly  called.  Thence,  again, 
northward  by  the  upper  Ziban  to  El 
Kantara,  that  magnificent  gorge,  the  Foum- 
es -Sahara,  the  Mouth  of  the  Desert,  as  it 
is  called  by  the  Arabs — the  ancient  Calceus 
Herculis,  and  centre  of  innumerable  Roman 
remains,  and  where  there  was  a  permanent 
station  of  the  famous  Third  Augustan 
Legion.  When,  at  the  French  occupation, 
Marshal  St.-Arnaud  led  his  small  army 
through  this  wild  and  solitary  defile,  and 
376 


Rome  in  Africa 

beheld  the  desert  stretching  out  before 
him,  he  cried  to  his  troops,  "  We  may 
flatter  ourselves  we  are  the  first  soldiers 
to  pass  through  this  region."  Yet  almost 
beside  where  he  stood,  graven  imperishably 
in  the  rock,  was  an  inscription  setting 
forth  that  the  Sixth  Roman  Legion,  under 
Antonine,  had  made  that  very  journey 
seventeen  centuries  before.  For  all  we 
know,  moreover,  for  all  the  Legionaries 
knew,  the  Punic  trumpets  may  have  re- 
sounded ages  before  against  those  high 
gaunt  cliffs,  which,  northward,  become 
of  an  incomparable  desolation.  The  actual 
headquarters  of  the  Third  Legion  was  at 
Lambaesis  (Lambessa),  further  north.  But, 
interesting  as  Lambessa  is,  with  its  notable 
Praetorium  and  ruined  temples  and  monu- 
mental buildings,  Timgad  (Thamugas)  far 
surpasses  it.  It  has  been  called  the  Pompeii 
of  Africa,  and  not  wholly  inaptly,  as  is 
the  wont  in  these  arbitrary  appellations. 
The  Forum,  the  beautiful  Triumphal  Arch, 
the  Temple  to  Jupiter  Capitolinus,  and  a 
score  of  other  objects,  make  Timgad  a. 
place  of  singular  interest  and  fascination. 
As  it  is  much  more  conveniently  reached 
(from  the  west  and  north)  than  almost  any 
other  ruined  Roman  town,  it  should  be 
377 


Rome  in  Africa 

missed  by  no  visitor  to  French  Africa. 
The  journey  from  Const antine  to  Biskra 
can  pleasantly  be  broken  at  Batna,  whence 
Timgad  can  be  visited  in  one  long  day. 

Of  Constantine  itself  what  can  one  say 
in  a  limited  space  but  that  it  is  the  grandest 
of  hill-set  towns,  and  has  a  history  as 
romantic  and  stirring  and  momentous  as 
any  city  in  Africa  after  Carthage  ?  Numi- 
dian,  Pagan  Roman,  Christian  Roman, 
Vandal,  Byzantine,  Arab,  Turk,  and  the 
Gaul  of  to-day  have  successively  ruled 
here.  All  have  left  their  traces.  Here 
Masinissa,  Jugurtha,  and  Tacfarinas  dreamed 
of  an  African  empire  wherein  the  Roman 
usurper  would  have  no  part  ;  here  Sallust 
wandered  in  his  lovely  private  domain, 
pondering  his  history  of  the  Jugurthine 
war,  or  speculating  on  what  further  extor- 
tion he  could  impose  on  the  unfortunate 
wealthy  citizens  ;  here  the  exiled  St. 
Cyprian  moved  through  the  narrow  streets, 
singing  his  Christian  hymns  ;  here  the 
Turkish  pasha  laughed  at  the  liberties 
of  the  Arab  republic  ;  here  the  greatest  of 
its  Beys  was  strangled  by  treacherous 
soldiers  ;  and  here  the  French  army  met 
with  its  most  crushing  disaster  in  Africa. 
The  bugle  of  the  Zouave  is  now  heard  in 

378 


Rome  in  Africa 

place  of  the  Turkish  clarion,  as  that 
succeeded  the  fanfare  of  the  Roman  trumpet, 
the  shrill  summons  of  the  Punic  herald,  the 
rude  cymbal  of  the  Berber  warrior,  secure, 
as  he  thought,  within  his  Numidian  eyry. 

Setif,  the  best  stopping-place  between 
Algiers  and  Constantine,  though  so  im- 
portant a  Roman  town  has  not  now  much 
of  interest,  but  there  are  the  remarkable 
ruins  of  Cuiculum,  some  twenty  miles 
away.  It  was  not  far  from  here  that 
were  discovered  those  wonderful  mosaics, 
drawings  of  which  were  exhibited  in  the 
Paris  exhibition  of  1878,  one  of  the  most 
notable  having  reference  to  that  Crescens, 
a  young  Moor,  who  at  the  Hippodrome  in 
Rome  during  the  ten  years  A.D.  115-124, 
with  his  four  horses,  Accept  us,  Circus, 
Delicatus,  and  Cotynus,  gained  prizes  to 
the  value  of  over  a  million  and  a  half 
sesterces. 

Thence — that  is,  from  Constantine  or 
the  neighbourhood — it  is  easy  to  make  a 
long  sweep  by  the  seaboard,  westward  by 
Philippe ville  (the  Roman  Rusicada,  the 
Punic  Tapsus)  on  to  Algiers  and  Cher- 
chell  (Icosium  and  lol) :  eastward  by 
Bona,  Bizerta  (Hppo  Zarytus  or  Diarrhy- 
tus),  and  Utica. 

379 


Rome  in  Africa 

There  are,  it  may  be  added,  Roman 
remains  in  Morocco,  but  there  are  few  of 
which  we  have  knowledge  that  are  of 
any  importance.  It  is  doubtful  if  explora- 
tion, when  once  the  western  Moorish  empire 
is  open  to  all,  will  reveal  much.  Beyond 
Mauritania,  Setifensis,  and  Julia  Caesarea 
on  the  coast,  the  Roman  settlements  were 
rather  temporary  military  stations  than 
towns.  Even  in  the  province  of  Oran  there 
is  little.  Tlemsen  itself  was  never  more 
than  Pomaria  municipia. 

If  I  had  to  select  only  three  particular 
points  of  vantage  in  this  great  march  of 
Rome,  pre-eminently  notable  on  their  own 
account  as  well,  I  think  they  would  be  El 
Djem  (Thysdrus),  Tebessa,  and  Constantine. 
Cherchell,  it  is  true,  has  an  exceptional 
attraction  ;  and  if  it  were  possible  to  get 
a  glimpse  of  Africa  as  it  was  in  the  time 
of  Caligula,  there  is  probably  no  city  one 
would  so  gladly  see  as  that  Punic  lol  of 
which,  as  Julia  Caesarea,  Juba  II.  made  an 
African  Athens.  This  admirable  scholar, 
noble  gentleman,  and  kingly  sovereign  was 
one  of  the  greatest  men  to  whom  Africa 
gave  birth.  As  true  a  patriot  as  Jugurtha, 
he  was  all  that  that  barbaric  prince  was 
not.  To-day  we  remember  him  in  connec- 
380 


Rome  in  Africa 

tion  with  the  vast  cenotaph  on  the  Barbary 
coast  known  to  the  French  colonists  as  the 
Tombeau  de  la  Chretienne,  to  the  Arabs 
as  the  Kbour-er-Roumia  (Tomb  of  the  Roman 
woman)  ;  and  because  he  was  the  husband 
of  Cleopatra  Selene,  the  beautiful  daughter 
of  Mark  Antony  and  his  famed  Egyptian 
queen.  But  even  in  his  own  day  the 
Athenians  raised  a  statue  in  his  honour. 
The  Numidians  and  Berbers  worshipped 
him  as  divine  :  "  Et  Juba,  Mauris  volen- 
tibus,  deus  est"  But  with  him  the  royal 
Numidian  race  came  to  an  end  ;  for  his 
only  son  rebelled  against  Rome,  and  died 
ignominiously.  His  daughter,  Drusilla,  it 
may  be  added,  was  that  Drusilla,  wife 
of  Felix,  Governor  of  Judaea,  before  whom 
Paul  was  arraigned.  It  is  possible,  as  has 
been  suggested,  that  it  was  she  who, 
remembering  her  father's  tolerant  and 
beneficent  reign,  counselled  her  stern  Roman 
husband  to  moderation,  and  even  to 
inquiry  into  the  strange  tenets  of  those  of 
whom  Paul  was  so  fearless  a  champion  : 
so  that  he  said,  "  Go  thy  way  for  this 
time  ;  when  I  have  a  convenient  season, 
I  will  call  for  thee."  But  to-day  almost 
nothing  Roman  stands  on  the  site  of  lol, 
"  splendidissima  colonia  Cczsarensis." 

381 


Rome  in  Africa 

El  Djem,  the  ancient  Thysdrus,  remote 
in  the  south-east  of  Tunisia,  can  be  reached 
from  either  of  the  four  coast  towns,  Susa, 
Monastir  (Ruspina),  Mahadia  (Aphrodi- 
sium),*  or  Sfax.  It  is  unlikely,  however, 
that  any  ordinary  African  traveller  will 
find  himself  in  either  of  the  two  smaller 
towns,  sans  European  inns,  sans  con- 
veniences of  any  kind,  sans  other  means 
of  transport  than  Sahara  mules  or  small 
ragged  horses.  Susa,  both  with  regard  to 
distance  and  convenience,  is  a  much  better 
point  of  departure  than  Sfax — a  large 
and  important  town,  the  Liverpool  of 
Tunisia,  if  the  capital  be  considered  the 
London  of  the  regency.  The  triple -towered 
Sfax,  the  ancient  Taphroura,  is  well  worth 
a  visit  for  itself  ;  but,  except  traders 
in  sponges  and  oil,  few  are  likely  to  find 
their  way  here,  save  as  passengers  by  the 
French  or  Italian  steamer  to  or  from 
Tripoli,  or  those  anxious  to  go  hence  to 
Gabes  ;  though  not  for  Gabes's  sake, 
Tacape  of  old  though  it  be,  but  so  as  to 
visit  Djerba,  that  island  in  the  Gulf  of 

*  Also  "Africa."  This  is  the  "  city  of  Africa  " 
alluded  to  in  Froissart.  It  is  supposed  also  to  be 
the  site  of  Turris  Hannibalis — the  castle  and  farm 
of  Hannibal. 

382 


Rome  in  Africa 

Syrtis  Minor  familiar  to  all  lovers  of  Homer 
as  the  Isle  of  the  Lotophagi. 

One  important  consideration  in  the  choice 
of  Susa  is  that  a  good  carriage  can  be 
obtained  here  more  easily — a  matter  of  real 
moment,  as  it  is  certainly  better  to  make 
a  caravanserai  of  one's  vehicle  than  to 
deliver  one's  self  over  to  the  dirt  and 
vermin  of  the  fondouk  in  the  Arab  village 
near  the  Amphitheatre.  The  road  hither, 
whether  from  the  north,  east,  or  south,  is 
a  dreary  one.  In  the  hot  season  it  is  a 
waste  of  sand  and  blinding  shingle  :  a 
journey  from  which  the  horses  suffer  much, 
as  there  is  only  one  good  well  on  the  track, 
and  that  only  relatively  good.  But  if 
the  road  be  dreary,  the  mind  can  transform 
it  with  memories  of  the  past. 

As  Thysdrus  the  town  was  not  so  im- 
portant as  its  neighbour  Thapsus,  though 
as  Thysdritana  Colonia  it  must  have  risen 
to  great  dignity  and  beauty.  Julius  Caesar 
rated  its  worth  somewhat  scornfully  when 
he  rode  into  it  in  triumph  after  the  fall 
of  Thapsus,  though  doubtless  to  this 
deserved  or  undeserved  clemency  some- 
thing of  its  swift  after-prosperity  was  due. 
Here  it  was  that  the  octogenarian  pro- 
consul Gordian  reluctantly  assumed,  at 

383 


Rome  in  Africa 

his  soldiers'  bidding,  the  imperial  purple, 
and  after  a  few  weeks  of  barren  honour 
paid  the  penalty  of  that  folly,  and,  childless 
now,  throneless,  an  old  man  and  dis- 
honoured, took  with  his  own  hands  the  life 
that  would  have  been  spared  by  his  victor 
only  out  of  contempt. 

One  could  not  readily  imagine  a  more 
impressive  scene  than  that  of  El  Djem 
when  come  upon  under  the  spell  of  moon- 
light. From  the  vast  waste  around  no 
sound  is  heard  save  the  cry  of  the  night 
wind  moving  across  the  sand  steppes,  the 
long  wailing  howl  of  disconsolate  jackals, 
or  the  savage  snarling  of  hyenas.  Out 
of  the  gloom  issues  a  vast  and  majestic 
structure.  It  is  in  some  respects  one  of 
the  finest  of  Roman  amphitheatres.  It 
has  an  unusual  fascination  in  the  fact 
that  it  seems  to  have  risen  in  majesty  in 
this  African  desert  only  to  begin  a  long- 
protracted  ruin,  without  ever  having  ful- 
filled its  purpose,  or  for  but  a  relatively 
brief  season.  All  the  labour  of  hosts  of 
slaves  and  native  bondsmen  went  for 
naught.  For  before  completion  of  its  walls 
and  decorations  the  hand  of  fate  stayed 
all  ;  we  know  not  when  or  how,  save 
that  it  was  so,  and  that  thenceforth  neither 

384 


Rome  in  Africa 

Roman  nor  Greek  nor  Ifrikian  could  have 
there  the  delights  of  which  he  had  dreamed. 
It  is  in  bulk  that  this  colossal  amphitheatre 
is  so  impressive — in  bulk  plus  the  advantage 
of  its  sombre  environment.  In  detail  it 
is  of  inferior  workmanship,  and  often  of 
perdurable  material.  But  to  see  it  "  stand 
out  gigantic  "  in  that  sun-swept  solitary 
waste  is  a  thing  to  remember,  to  wonder 
at  with  ever  new  wonder,  admiration, 
and  something  of  awe. 

It  is  difficult  in  the  face  of  this  universal 
ruin  of  Rome  to  accept  the  Arab  proverb 
that  "  yesterday  never  existed "  ;  it  is 
impossible  to  believe  in  their  profoundly 
pessimistic  alyoum  khair  min  ghodwah, 
"  to-day  is  better  than  to-morrow."  A 
new  era  has  surely  dawned  for  North  Africa 
with  the  French  domination.  To  me  this 
domination  seems  to  make  for  nothing  but 
good  ;  nor  would  any  other  nation  than  the 
French  be  so  likely  to  attempt  a  valiant 
approach  to  the  unattainable,  and  endeavour 
to  walk  where  Rome  walked,  with  her 
sovran  dignity,  her  power,  her  imperial 
destiny.  Alas,  no  nation  now  extant  has 
the  architectonic  genius  of  the  ancient 
mistress  of  the  world.  We  are  inheritors, 

IV  385  2  B 


Rome  in  Africa 

not  usurpers.  Once  again  North  Africa 
may  become  the  granary  of  an  alien  empire, 
perhaps  of  half  Europe  ;  and  who  shall 
say  that  she  may  not  evolve  into  a  great 
and  free  and  powerful  republic — when  she 
will  have  won  from  the  French  dominion 
what  Rome  gained  from  Greece,  what 
Greece  learned  from  the  very  race  which 
peopled  this  wonderful  Afric  shore  ?  For 
this  is  true  :  the  greatest  race  of  the  ancient 
world  learned  from  Phoenician  lore,  and 
even  Plato  himself,  when  he  visited  Cyre- 
naica,  Hellene  of  a  late  day  though  he  was, 
doubtless  added  to  his  knowledge  of  what 
were  then  the  occult  sciences  from  the 
lip  of  Egyptian  exile  or  Sidonian  mage. 
Homer,  Herodotus,  and  Virgil  have  each 
borne  witness  to  the  art  of  Phoenicia. 
In  the  Iliad  we  read  of  the  silver  urn  of 
unexcelled  workmanship  in  its  contours 
and  reliefs,  from  the  hands  of  "  Sidonian 
artists  "  ;  and  again,  in  the  Odyssey,  of 
"the  silver  vase  with  living  sculpture 
wrought."  Lucan  the  scholar  tells  us  that 
it  was  the  Phoenicians  who  first  introduced 
into  Greece  the  mystery  of  letters,  as  it 
was  they  who  first  by  carven  hieroglyphs 
expressed  what  thitherto  only  the  tongue 
could  convey. 


Rome  in  Africa 

Thus,  in  turn,  in  the  words  of  Horace, 
Greece  allured  her  rude  conqueror,  Rome, 
and  introduced  her  art  into  unpolished 
Latium  : 

•"  Gratia  capta  ferum  victorem  cepit,  et  artes 
Intulit  agresti  Latio.  .  ,  ." 

Nearly  two  thousand  years  ago  the  in- 
habitants of  Thysdritana  Colonia  watched 
their  vast  and  magnificent  Amphitheatre 
grow  towards  completion.  It  was  to  be  a 
place  of  pleasure  for  them  and  their  children 
and  their  children's  children,  and  to  be  a 
monument  of  Rome's  eternal  endurance, 
her  irresistible  sway,  her  invincible  empire. 
Yet,  ere  a  few  generations  had  gone  by 
after  its  first  unremembered  disaster, 
Thysdrus  was  already  a  wild  and  ruined 
spot,  and  a  Libyan  chief tainess  made  it 
her  eyry  and  proud  vantage.  Vandal  and 
Arab  went  over  it  as  waves  over  low  land 
where  the  dykes  have  given  way.  Thysdrus 
disappeared  as  though  blotted  from  the 
earth.  The  Amphitheatre  stood  as  magnifi- 
cent in  its  ruin  as  of  yore,  yet  in  ruin. 
To-day  the  heedless  nomad  makes  his  lair 
under  its  arches.  For  the  rest,  it  knows 
the  owl  and  the  bat.  In  the  fierce  summer, 
when  the  wandering  Bedouin  has  gone  to 
387 


Rome  in  Africa 

the  mountains  or  the  coast,  these  nocturnal 
inheritors  of  the  glory  of  Thysdrus  share 
it  with  the  hyena  and  the  jackal.  For 
the  rune  of  Thysdrus  is  the  rune  of  Rome 
in  Africa,  of  "  imperishable  Rome."  The 
noble  music  is  dead.  But  only  now  is 
this  drear  silence  being  understood  aright  ; 
only  now  the  ultimate  cause  and  inevitable 
fulfilment  of  this  colossal  ruin  of  the 
mightiest  empire  the  world  has  known. 
In  the  lesson  of  Rome  we  have  a  menace, 
an  omen  not  to  be  gainsaid,  an  augury 
eloquent  as  death  in  the  midst  of  life,  as 
well  as  the  stimulus  of  a  supreme  example. 


388 


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE 

IN  the  Foreword  to  the  first  Edition  of 
Literary  Geography  (published  by  the  Pall 
Mall  Press,  London,  in  1904,  and  followed 
by  a  second  edition  in  1907)  the  author 
explained  that  : 

"  The  following  papers  on  the  distinctive 
features  of  the  actual  or  delineated  country 
of  certain  famous  writers,  and  on  certain 
regions  which  have  many  literary  associa- 
tions, now  collectively  grouped  under  the 
title  Literary  Geography,  have  appeared  at 
intervals  during  1903  and  1904  in  The 
Pall  Mall  Magazine.  The  order  in  which 
they  appeared  there  has  not  been  adhered 
to,  and  here  and  there  a  few  passages  or 
quotations  or  illustrations  have  been  can- 
celled ;  otherwise,  save  for  the  correction 
of  one  or  two  slips  in  nomenclature  or 
other  misstatements,  the  articles  appear 
as  they  were  written." 
389 


Bibliographical  Note 

It  is  obvious  that  the  choice  of  theme 
has  been  arbitrary.  Where,  for  instance, 
is  "  The  Country  of  Thomas  Hardy "  ? 
But  "  Wessex "  has  been  so  exploited 
that  further  writing  on  the  subject  seemed 
to  be  superfluous.  It  is,  however,  equally 
obvious  that,  to  be  adequately  inclusive, 
not  a  single  volume  but  a  Cyclopaedia  of 
Literary  Geography  would  be  necessary. 
The  present  volume  aims  at  nothing  more 
than  to  be  a  readable  companion  in  times 
of  leisure  for  those  who  are  in  sympathy 
with  the  author's  choice  of  writers  and 
localities  ;  and  if  they  share  his  own 
pleasure  in  wandering  through  these 
"literary  lands"  he  on  his  part  will  be 
well  content. 

From  the  present  volume  three  papers 
are  omitted :  Scott-Land,  Dickens-Land, 
and  The  Literary  Geography  of  the  English 
Lakes. 

Of  the  three  Travel  Sketches  which  form 
Part  II.  Through  Nelson's  Duchy  was  written 
for.  the  Pall  Mall  Magazine  of  June  1903. 
The  Land  of  Theocritus  and  Rome  in  Africa 
appeared  in  Harper's  Monthly  Magazine, 
39° 


Bibliographical  Note 

the  first  in  April  1903,  the  second  in 
June  1895  ;  and  through  the  courtesy 
of  the  Editors  of  these  Periodicals  I  am 
enabled  to  include  them  in  Volume  IV.  of 
the  Selected  Writings  of  William  Sharp. 

ELIZABETH  A.  SHARP. 


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